Harry Truman Page 2

  Barkley makes a real keynote speech. Ends up at midnight. I can’t get him by phone. My “good” friend Leslie Biffle spends all his time as sergeant at arms of the convention running Barkley for President. I watched the demonstration on television. Having been in on numerous demonstrations I’m not fooled. I can see everything taking place on the platform. The “actors” forget that.

  Barkley in his good speech mentions me only casually by name.

  Perhaps I should identify more completely some of this cast of characters. Tommy Corcoran, often known as “Tommy the Cork,” was an old Roosevelt brain truster. Burt Wheeler was Burton K. Wheeler, the Democratic isolationist senator from Montana. Alben Barkley was, at this time, the senator from Kentucky and the Democratic majority leader of the Senate. Leslie Biffle was the secretary of the Senate and one of Washington’s shrewdest politicians. It was a good index of how demoralized the Democrats had become, that someone as normally loyal and dependable as Biffle would try to double-cross the President of the United States.

  The following day, my father was back at work, quietly taking control of the party:

  I called Barkley and smoothed him down again. Tried to call him last night after his good speech but can’t get him.

  Call McGrath and tell him I’m coming up tomorrow on the train and accept.

  He is not very happy over it.

  Talked to Hannegan, Ed Flynn and Frank Walker. All disgruntled as has-beens always are with a new chairman. It means not one thing. The result is what counts.

  Platform fight this afternoon, postponed until tomorrow. But they have a good fight on credentials. A Negro alternate from St. Louis makes a minority report suggesting the unseating of Mississippi delegation. Vaughn is his name. He’s overruled. . . . Congressman Dawson of Chicago, another Negro, makes an excellent talk on civil rights. These two colored men are the only speakers to date who seem to be for me wholeheartedly.

  Snyder calls and says Jimmy R., Leon Henderson and Wilson Wyatt are running Barkley for President. Maybe so, but Barkley is an honorable man. He won’t give me the double cross, I’m sure.

  Bob Hannegan, Ed Flynn, and Frank Walker were all former Democratic national chairmen. As Dad said, like most ex-office-holders, they had nothing to offer but criticism. Snyder is John Snyder, Dad’s Secretary of the Treasury, and one of his closest friends. Thanks to him and other Truman loyalists, my father knew exactly what was happening at the convention, from the inside.

  On Wednesday, July 14, Dad continued making notes on the convention, as he saw it:

  Take the train for Philadelphia at 7 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time, arrive in the rain at 9:15. Television sets at both ends of trip. No privacy sure enough now.

  Hear Alabama & Mississippi walk out of the convention. Hear Gov. Donnelly nominate me. Both on the radio. Hard to hear. My daughter & my staff try to keep me from listening. Think maybe I’ll be upset. I won’t be. . . .

  Philadelphia on that night of July 14 seemed to be wrapped in a huge suffocating blanket of heat and humidity. Mother and Dad and I were led to a small airless room beneath the platform, used as a dressing room when actors were performing at Convention Hall. We had to sit there for four long hours while the convention recovered from the civil rights wrangle and got down to the business of nominating my father for President and Alben Barkley for vice president.

  Once Dad had deflated his presidential boomlet, Barkley had passed the word that he was available for the vice presidency. He had been doing this at nearly every convention since 1928, and now, at the age of seventy, he was rather touchy on the subject. “It will have to come quick,” he told his friends. “I don’t want it passed around so long it is like a cold biscuit.” Dad admired Alben’s abilities as a speaker and respected his long career in the Senate, where he had served as majority leader for both him and President Roosevelt. So he promptly passed the word that the senator had his support and telephoned him in Philadelphia. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to run, Alben?” Dad said. “That’s all you had to do.”

  Never have I seen so much smoke without a fire as I saw that humid night in Philadelphia. I thought sure I was going to expire. Oxygen was my only thought. Dad, apparently bothered neither by the heat nor the pollution, went right on politicking. He sat in a nearby room, greeting delegates, congressmen, senators, and assorted Democrats who streamed in to shake hands and assure him of their backing. He had a particularly pleasant visit with Senator Barkley.

  Occasionally, in the rare moments when he was not being besieged by visitors, Dad stepped out on a little balcony and looked down on Philadelphia, where the nation’s political history began. He thought about the task to which he was committing himself, and about the wily, determined foe he was fighting - Joseph Stalin. My father felt we were very close to war with Russia. Even as we sat there, waiting for the Democrats to stop debating and orating, American planes were flying tons of food and clothing and other necessities of life into beleaguered Berlin. On June 24, 1948, the Russians had cut off all land access to Berlin, as part of an attempt to force the United States and our allies to withdraw from this symbolic city. On June 26, Dad ordered all the available planes in the European theater to begin a massive airlift of supplies. Twenty-five hundred tons of food and fuel were being flown into the city every day by 130 American planes. My father had made this decision against the advice of many of his closest aides and Cabinet members. “We will stay in Berlin,” he said.

  Later Dad recalled that he also thought about some of the presidents to whom he felt close. One was John Tyler, to whom we are bound by blood as well as history. Dad’s grandfather, Anderson Shippe Truman, married a direct descendant of John Tyler’s brother. Tyler was the first vice president to become President on the death of the Chief Executive - in his case, William Henry Harrison. Daniel Webster, his Secretary of State, and Henry Clay, the leader of the Whig party in Congress, thought they were going to run the government, but they soon found out that Tyler was planning to be his own President. When Dad is willing to admit that he has a stubborn streak (which is seldom), he humorously attributes it to his Tyler blood.

  Finally, at 1:45 a.m., my father was escorted to the convention floor. He had been officially nominated, beating Senator Richard Russell of Georgia, 947½ votes to 263. But the South was in such a truculent mood that Sam Rayburn, the chairman of the convention, and one of Dad’s staunchest friends, did not dare call for the usual extra round of voting to make the nomination unanimous. While the band played “Hail to the Chief,” Mrs. Emma Guffey Miller, sister of the senator from Pennsylvania, released a flock of doves from inside a floral liberty bell. She and her brother were part of the professional liberal bloc that was trying to convince the Democratic Party and the country that peace with Stalin could be won by appeasement. The doves were an incredible disaster. One almost perched on Sam Rayburn’s head as he was trying to introduce my father and Alben Barkley. Another blundered into an upper balcony and plunged to the floor, dead or unconscious. In the pandemonium, a reporter said he overheard a delegate from New York comparing Harry Truman to the dead pigeon.

  Ignoring this idiocy, my father strode to the lectern and opened a small black loose-leaf book in which he carried the notes of his speech. He never looked more like a leader, as he waited for the soggy, weary crowd to settle down and listen to him. He was wearing a crisp white linen suit, and he exuded a vitality which practically no one else in that muggy cavern of a convention hall felt, at that moment. He knew they needed an injection of his vitality, and he gave it to them with his first sentence.

  “Senator Barkley and I will win this election and make those Republicans like it - don’t you forget that.”

  An incredible current of emotion surged through the crowd. People who thought they were too tired even to stand up again were on their feet, shouting their heads off.

  For the next twenty minutes, he told them why he was going to win. He listed the failures of the Eightieth Congress and pointed out t
he tremendous gains that families and workers had made under the Democrats. It was one of the toughest, most aggressive speeches ever made by a presidential candidate. He brought the crowd to their feet again and again, roaring their approval.

  But only Mother and I and a handful of White House aides were ready for the totally unexpected climax.

  My father’s thirty-five years in politics and his constant study of American history had made clear to him the key to victory in any political campaign - take the offensive, not only in words but in action. As he put it later, “I . . . had made up my mind that I would spring my first big surprise of the campaign in that speech.

  On the 26th day of July, which out in Missouri we call Turnip Day, I am going to call Congress back and ask them to pass laws to halt rising prices, to meet the housing crisis - which they are saying they are for, in their platform.

  At the same time, I shall ask them to act upon other vitally needed measures. . . .

  Now, my friends, if there is any reality behind that Republican platform, we ought to get some action from a short session of the 80th Congress. They can do this job in 15 days, if they want to do it. They will still have time to go out and run for office. . . .

  For two solid minutes, the convention hall was drowned in total pandemonium as the delegates roared their support of this daring move. Even liberal columnist Max Lerner, who had been writing “this has been the Convention of the vacuum - the only ruling passion of empty men is the feat of looking foolish,” did an abrupt about-face and reported: “It was a great speech for a great occasion, and as I listened I found myself applauding. . . .”

  The following day my father brought himself up to date with more notes on his desk calendar:

  Arrived in Washington at the White House at 5:30 a.m., my usual getting up time. But I go to bed at 6:00 and listen to the news. Sleep until 9:15, order breakfast and go to the office at 10:00.

  I called a special session of the Congress. My, how the opposition screams. I’m going to attempt to make them meet their platform promises before the election. That’s according to the “kept” press and the opposition leadership “cheap politics.” I wonder what “expensive politics” will be like! We’ll see.

  The following day he was even more pleased by the reaction he was getting:

  Editorials, columns and cartoons are gasping and wondering.

  None of the smart folks thought I would call the Congress. I called em for July 26th; turnip day at home.

  Dewey synthetically milks cows and pitches hay for the cameras just as that other faker Teddy Roosevelt did - but he never heard of “turnip day.”

  I don’t believe the USA wants any more fakers - Teddy and Franklin are enough. So I’m going to make a common sense intellectually honest campaign. It will be a novelty - and it will win.

  While he was standing the Republicans and their publicity men on their ears, my father had to continue coping with the horrendous world situation. On July 19, 1948, he made the following notes on a meeting with Secretary of State George Marshall and Secretary of Defense James Forrestal:

  Have quite a day. See some politicos. A meeting with General Marshall and Jim Forrestal on Berlin and the Russian situation. Marshall states the facts and the condition with which we are faced. I’d made the decision ten days ago to stay in Berlin.

  Jim wants to hedge - he always does. He’s constantly sending me alibi memos, which I return with directions and the facts.

  We’ll stay in Berlin - come what may.

  Royal Draper & Jim Forrestal come in later. I have to listen to a rehash of what I know already and reiterate my “stay in Berlin” decision. I don’t pass the buck, nor do I alibi out of any decision I make.

  Fighting as he was to keep the world from blowing itself up, there were times when my father found the situation almost unbearable. On July 10, he poured out his feelings in a hitherto unpublished letter to Winston Churchill. The great British leader, out of office, had written him a letter wishing him well in the election and voicing his fear that the Kremlin might begin a war in the autumn. “I greatly admire your conduct of international affairs in Europe during your tenure of the most powerful office in the world. I only wish I could have been more help,” Churchill wrote.

  Here is Dad’s reply:

  My dear Winston:

  I was deeply touched by your good letter of June 7. I am going through a terrible political “trial by fire.” Too bad it must happen at this time.

  Your great country and mine are founded on the fact that the people have the right to express themselves on their leaders, no matter what the crisis.

  Your note accompanying “The Gathering Storm” is highly appreciated, and I have made it a part of the book.

  We are in the midst of grave and trying times. You can look with satisfaction upon your great contribution to the overthrow of Nazism & Fascism in the world. “Communism” - so called, is our next great problem. I hope we can solve it without the “blood and tears” the other two cost.

  May God bless and protect you

  Ever sincerely your friend

  Harry Truman

  On this same crowded July 19, Dad had to play another important presidential role - the ceremonial presence at solemn occasions: “Went to Pershing’s funeral in the marble amphitheater in Arlington. The hottest damn place this side of hell and Bolivar, Mo. An impressive ceremony. This is the fifth time I prepared to attend the General’s funeral. . . .”

  The reference to Bolivar was inspired by a recent visit we had made to that little town in southwest Missouri, to assist the president of Venezuela in dedicating a statue of the great South American liberator after whom it is named, Simón Bolívar. It was a scorching July day, and we practically melted. In spite of the heat, General Pershing’s funeral was one ceremony that my father would not have missed, no matter what was happening elsewhere. There were few Americans he revered more than General of the Armies John J. Pershing, whom Dad called “my old commander.” He had served under him in World War I, and he knew what Pershing had achieved, against terrible odds. One of the first things Dad did, in the hectic days after he became President, was pay a call on the General, in his room at Walter Reed Hospital.

  My father ended his notes to himself on July 19 with a personal lament. Mother and I had returned to Missouri, leaving him alone in the White House: “Bess & Margaret went to Mo. at 7:30 EDT, 6:30 God’s time. I sure hated to see them go. Came back to the great white jail and read the papers, some history, and then wrote this. It is hot and humid and lonely. Why in hell does anybody want to be a head of state? Damned if I know.”

  Dad’s only escape from this pressure was the yacht Williamsburg. On July 26 he wrote to his sister Mary: “I went down the river on the yacht Friday at noon and slept almost around the clock. I sure needed it. And I’ll need some more before November.”

  Still in a gloomy mood, he added:

  It’s all so futile. Dewey, Wallace, the cockeyed Southerners and then if I win - which I’m afraid I will - I’ll probably have a Russian war on my hands. Two wars are enough for anybody and I’ve had two.

  I go to Congress tomorrow and read them a message requesting price control, housing and a lot of other necessary things and I’ll in all probability get nothing. But I’ve got to try.

  The weather is fine here. I hope it’s not too hot there. I’ll be home Sunday to vote on Tuesday.

  Then back here to Congress for the balance of August. And then the campaign and the ballyhoo and Nov. 2 will be here in a hurry and my troubles will be over or just beginning however you look at it. But we’ll win anyway.

  Two days later, my father wrote me a letter. I was busy trying to lose weight in Missouri by gardening and painting the kitchen pantry. He combined this knowledge and his worries over Congress in his letter:

  Dear Margie: - I was highly pleased to get your nice letter. And more than glad to get the telegram from you and your mother about the message to Congress.

 
You seem to have been slaving away at your paint job and your garden. I am hoping to see an excellent result in each instance. I shall expect to be able to pick a nice bouquet from the garden when I come home Sunday and I shall hope to be able to see myself in those slick pantry walls!

  I am somewhat exhausted myself getting ready for this terrible Congress. They are in the most awful turmoil any Congress, I can remember, ever has been. Some of them want to quit right away some of them want to give the Dixiecrats a chance to filibuster and the Majority are very anxious to put the Pres in the hole if they can manage it.

  It will take a few days for the message to sink in completely.

  In the meantime I shall take it easy and let ‘em sweat.

  On July 31, Dad flew to New York to make a speech. There he saw the first proof that he had knocked some of the defeatism out of the Democratic Party. He noted it on his calendar in the following words: “Great reception in N.Y. O’Dwyer, mayor of N.Y., met me for the first time! He’s either been sick, out of town or too busy before. It’s good sign because he’s a bandwagon boy.”

  Unfortunately, the same day my father flew on to Missouri to vote in the Democratic primary. There his spirits plunged again. The Democratic Party in his home state, and even in his home county, was in terrible shape. He noted glumly on his calendar: “Saw Rufus Burrus, candidate for Congress in the 4th Mo Cong district which I had way in 1933 set up for myself. Didn’t get it. Went to the Senate instead - and became President. Some change I’d say. Rufus has not a chance.”

  The local politicians had let Dad down badly. Instead of capitalizing on the prestige of having a Missouri man in the White House, they had “taken to cutting each other’s throats and mine too [he noted in his calendar]. My brother Vivian . . . told me all about the situation politically, in my home county. I don’t see how it can be so bad - but it is.”