David McCullough Library E-book Box Set

by David McCullough

  In October 1959, George Marshall had died, and for Truman it was another and the heaviest of a succession of personal blows, as slowly but steadily close friends and favorite members of his former official family began to pass from the scene. Fred Vinson had died in 1953, Eddie Jacobson in 1955, Alben Barkley in 1956, Admiral Leahy in July 1959. Hearing that Marshall was dying, Truman had telephoned Marshall’s wife in North Carolina to say he was on his way by plane. But she told him not to come because the general would not know him. “She and I spent most of my call weeping,” Truman wrote to Acheson.

  “Do you suppose any President of the United States ever had two such men with him as you and the General?” he would say in another letter.

  At a brief Episcopal funeral service for Marshall in the chapel at Fort Myer, Virginia, Truman and Eisenhower sat side by side in the same pew at the front, their common grief partly easing the strain between them.

  A new generation of politicians was bidding to take power. With Eisenhower retiring from office and Richard Nixon the probable choice for a Republican nominee, the chance of a Democratic victory looked promising. Of those Democrats in the running, Truman’s favorites were Stuart Symington and Lyndon Johnson, neither of whom had much of a chance. Truman refused to consider Stevenson for a third try. Nor was he enthusiastic about John F. Kennedy, whom he considered too young and inexperienced. He did not want a Catholic—it was not that he was against Catholics, only that he was against losing. Remembering what had happened to Al Smith, he did not think a Catholic could be elected. He also thought Kennedy had been too approving of Joe McCarthy and he disliked Kennedy’s father quite as much as ever. Joe Kennedy had spent over $4 million to buy the nomination for his son, Truman told Margaret. To others he quipped, “It’s not the pope I’m afraid of, it’s the pop.”

  John Kennedy had called on Truman at the Mayflower Hotel in January 1960, during one of Truman’s visits to Washington. According to Kennedy’s own notes on the meeting, he urged Truman not to announce his support for any candidate until he, Kennedy, had had a chance to come to Independence and “give him all the facts as I saw them.” If, at the convention, the contest became a deadlock, then, Kennedy suggested, Truman could intervene in the name of party unity. But until then it was important, Kennedy said, to let the primary process run its course. Truman expressed warm regard for both Kennedy and Hubert Humphrey, the other leading contender, and ended the meeting by telling Kennedy he would do nothing to hurt him.

  Bess Truman was advising her husband to stay out of the whole affair. “She refused to get excited about the Democratic party and told Dad he was crazy if he went to another convention at the age of seventy-six,” remembered Margaret. “Let the next generation fight it out among themselves—that was her attitude.” But like John Strother, the man he had recalled when meeting the son-in-law on his morning walk—“the grand old man” who wouldn’t tell his age—Truman, too, wanted “to be young with the young men.”

  He sometimes felt forgotten. On Capitol Hill in Washington late one evening, a young Senate aide answered the phone. The operator said she had a long-distance, person-to-person call for Senator Symington. When the aide said the senator had gone for the day and asked if he might know who was calling, he heard a familiar, clipped voice come on the line. “Just tell him Harry S. Truman called. Used to be President of the United States.”

  In April, Acheson wrote to tell Truman that if Kennedy were to “stub his toe” in the West Virginia primary, then probably the nomination would go to Stevenson. “I hate to say this but I think the only possible alternative is Stu and I doubt very much, though I am for him, that he can make it. He just doesn’t seem to catch hold. Maybe we should all give Jack a run for his money—or rather for Joe’s.”

  In May, with Kennedy out in front after an upset victory over Hubert Humphrey in West Virginia, Truman announced his support for Missouri’s own Symington, calling him “without doubt” the best qualified for the presidency. Asked what objections he had to Kennedy, Truman said, “None whatever. He’s a fine young man and I know and like him. The only thing is, he lives in Massachusetts.”

  Acheson grew greatly concerned that Truman might now go on the attack against Kennedy and say things that could cause long-lasting harm, not only about Kennedy but about civil rights. For lately Truman had been expressing views that left many feeling chagrined and disappointed, and especially those who knew how committed he was to equality before the law. Truman strongly disapproved of the methods of the civil rights movement, the sit-ins and marches. The leaders of the movement, it seemed to him, were flouting the law, resorting to mob rule, which was not his idea of the right way to bring about progress. He also appeared to take seriously the view of J. Edgar Hoover that much of the movement was Communist-inspired.

  On June 27, his greatest admirer and most devoted friend, Dean Acheson, wrote to set him straight in no uncertain terms and to ask him to agree to a few specific “don’ts” concerning the weeks ahead. It was a remarkable letter, attesting not only to Acheson’s exceptional skill and value as an adviser, but to the confidence he had in the strength of their friendship:

  Dear Boss:

  As the Convention approaches we partisans are likely to become, shall we say, emphatic in our statements to the press. Could we make a treaty on what we shall not say?

  On the positive side we can, and doubtless will, say that our candidate—yours and mine—has all the virtues of the Greats from Pericles through Churchill. St. Peter and Pee-pul forgive this innocent though improbable hyperbole. But there are some things that no one should, and few will, forgive.

  These fall into several groups, but the common denominator is the harm that comes from allowing the intensity of the personal view to dim a proper concern for the common cause. The list of the “It’s not dones,” as I see it, goes like this:—

  I. About other Democratic Candidates:

  (a) Never say that any of them is not qualified to be President

  (b) Never say that any of them can’t win.

  (c) Never suggest that any of them is the tool of any group or interest, or is not a true blue liberal, or has (or has used) more money than another.

  The reason: At this point public argument is too late—Deals may still be possible. I just don’t know. But sounding off is sure to be wrong. If our candidate is going anywhere—which I doubt—it will not be because of public attacks on other candidates. And such attacks can do a lot of harm when they are quoted in the election campaign.

  II. About the Negro sit-in Strikes:

  (a) Do not say that they are communist inspired. The evidence is all the other way, despite alleged views of J. Edgar Hoover, whom you should trust as much as you would a rattlesnake with the silencer on its rattle.

  (b) Do not say that you disapprove of them. Whatever you think you are under no compulsion to broadcast it. Free speech is a restraint on government; not an incitement to the citizen.

  The reason: Your views, as reported, are wholly out of keeping with your public record. The discussion does not convince anyone of anything. If you want to discuss the sociological, moral and legal interests involved, you should give much more time and thought to them.

  III. About Foreign Policy:

  (a) For the next four months do not say that in foreign policy we must support the President.

  The reason: This cliché has become a menace. It misrepresents by creating the false belief that in the recent disasters the President has had a policy or position to support.

  This just isn’t true. One might as well say “Support the President,” if he falls off the end of a dock. That isn’t a policy. But to urge support for him makes his predicament appear to be a policy to people who don’t know what a dock is.

  So, please, for just four months let his apologists come to his aid.

  We have got to beat Nixon. We shall probably have to do it with Kennedy. Why make it any harder than it has to be. Now, if ever, our vocal cords ought to be p
layed on the keyboard of our minds. This is so hard for me that I have stopped using my cords at all. By August they will be ready to play “My Rosary.” So I offer you a treaty on “don’ts.” Will you agree?

  In reply, Truman wrote, “You’ll never know how very much I appreciated your call and your good letter. I tried my best to profit by both…thanks to a real friend and a real standby.”

  When it appeared that Kennedy already had the nomination in hand, Truman kept insisting it would be an open convention and, by inference, one he would influence if not control. “A bandwagon only begins to roll after the third or fourth ballot,” he told reporters. He was greatly looking forward to the convention. “I am going to Los Angeles and make the best fight I can,” he wrote to Agnes Meyer, wife of the owner of the Washington Post. “I am not a pessimist and always fight until the last dog dies….”

  In reality, Kennedy had all but settled the matter, as Truman’s ever devoted advisers Hillman and Noyes reported to him from Los Angeles. The game was over. “Your coming here is considered routine and not calculated to make any significant change. This is the judgment of even those who are partial to you.” But they urged him to say nothing about the convention being “rigged—or you will be charged with November defeat—a prospect that seems all but certain.”

  But Truman—angry, bitter—would speak his mind. On July 2, at a dramatic televised press conference at the Truman Library, he lashed out at Kennedy in a way certain to infuriate a great many Democrats, exactly as Acheson had urged him never to do. He not only announced he would not attend the convention as a delegate, because the Kennedy forces had it “rigged,” but, facing the television cameras, leveled his remarks directly at Kennedy: “Senator, are you certain that you are quite ready for the country, or that the country is ready for you in the role of President in January 1961?” He had no doubt, Truman said, about the political heights to which Kennedy was destined to rise.

  But I am deeply concerned and troubled about the situation we are up against in the world now and in the immediate future. That is why I hope that someone with the greatest possible maturity and experience would be available at this time. May I urge you to be patient?

  Kennedy responded quickly and smoothly. If fourteen years in major elective office was insufficient experience, he said, then that would have ruled out all but a handful of presidents, including Wilson, Roosevelt, and Truman.

  No one applauded Truman for what he had done. Acheson wrote to him after the convention:

  I listened to your press conference and regretted that you felt impelled to say anything, though what you said was better than what you first told me that you intended to say. It seemed quite inevitable that Jack’s nomination would occur and that all you and Lyndon said you would both have to eat—as indeed you have.

  Poor Lyndon came off much worse, since he is now in the crate on the way to the county fair and destined to be a younger and more garrulous—if that is possible—Alben Barkley. It is possible that being a smart operator in the Senate is a special brand of smartness which doesn’t carry over into the larger field…Jack and his team were the only “pros” in Los Angeles, so far as I could see….

  Well, we’re off to the races…. I hope it is still true that the Lord looks benignly after children, drunks and-the U.S.A….

  Again as in 1956, Truman was ready to join forces and do his part. When Kennedy called him from Hyannis Port on August 2, he said at once that he was ready to help. “He could not have been kinder to me,” Kennedy remarked privately.

  Truman’s own disappointment and anger had to be put aside. He was “blue as indigo” over what had happened at Los Angeles, he wrote in a letter to Acheson that he decided not to send. The choice of Kennedy or Nixon was a bleak prospect. “You and I are stuck with the necessity of taking the worst of two evils or none at all. So—I’m taking the immature Democrat as the best of the two. Nixon is impossible. So, there we are.”

  Accompanied by Stuart Symington, Kennedy came to the Truman Library, where Truman, who was old enough to be Kennedy’s father, met him at the door. “Come right on in here, young man. I want to talk to you.”

  Two days later Truman wrote to Sam Rosenman, “Don’t get discouraged. The boy is learning—I hope.”

  To the surprise of no one who knew him, Truman joined the campaign. The Kennedy-Nixon contest of 1960 was to be his “last hurrah,” as assuredly he knew, and he pitched in for all he was worth.

  “Now you are in for it,” wrote Acheson. “Just don’t exhaust yourself through sheer nonsense.”

  Traveling by plane, train, and automobile, Truman covered nine states, delivered 13 speeches. He rode in parades, held press conferences, shook hands, waved, smiled, kept everyone with him on the run, and as always thrived on it. The one thing he insisted on was his midday nap. “A nap after lunch is imperative and cannot be missed under any consideration,” his aide, David Stowe, was instructed.

  Only in overcrowded rooms, when people began pushing and shoving to meet him, did he show the strain.

  Although he moves into and through situations with the same good humor and smiles [wrote Stowe in his notes], apparently this problem bothers him to some extent because it became a frequent topic of conversation. Conceivably, it is a warning to those who work with him to be on our toes to avoid in our planning any large gatherings in which he can be mauled and shoved around. After all he is 76.

  “The campaign is ended and we have a Catholic for President,” Truman wrote to Acheson on November 21.

  It makes no difference, in my opinion, what church a man belongs to, if he believes in the oath he takes to support and defend the Constitution….

  If our new President works on the job, he’ll have no trouble. You know, I wish I’d been young enough to go back to the White House and make Alibi Ike wear a top hat!

  The day after Kennedy’s inauguration in January 1961, Truman was welcomed back to the White House and the Oval Office for the first time in eight years, for which, as he wrote the President, he was extremely grateful. The following November, the Trumans and Margaret and Clifton Daniel were guests at the White House for a white-tie dinner in Truman’s honor and for an overnight visit. The grouse served at dinner was so tough as to be nearly inedible, but with many of his old Cabinet assembled for the occasion, and with the hospitality shown by the President and First Lady, Truman was radiant. For the after-dinner entertainment, in the East Room, the Kennedys had arranged a piano concert of Truman’s favorites—Mozart and Chopin—played by Eugene List, who had first performed for Truman at Potsdam. When, at one point, List invited the former President to take a turn at the big Steinway, Truman obliged, looking as pleased as a man could possibly be.

  IV

  With the passing of time, old political wounds began to fade. Truman made amends, restored friendship with one former adversary or critic after another—Henry Wallace, Joe Martin, Joe Alsop, Drew Pearson, even Paul Hume, the Washington Post music critic who came to Kansas City to review a concert of Maria Callas and decided to drive out to the Truman Library. As Hume later recounted, he and Truman had a “wonderful visit,” Truman taking an hour to talk and show him about the library. “I’ve had a lot of fun out of you and General MacArthur over the years,” Truman said as Hume was leaving. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  At the concert that night, Hume found himself sitting across the aisle from the Trumans. When he went over to say hello, Truman turned to Bess and said, “See, I told you that Paul Hume was in my office today.”

  (Following the performance, Truman went backstage to meet Maria Callas and later, catching up with friends walking to their cars in the garage across the street, Truman, looking tremendously pleased, said, “You know, she remembered me!”)

  Only three remained for whom he had little or nothing good to say: Eisenhower, MacArthur, and Richard Nixon. The man he had hated most, Joe McCarthy, was dead, of acute alcoholism at age forty-eight in 1957.

  In November 1961, at Sa
m Rayburn’s funeral in Bonham, Texas, with twenty thousand people standing in the cold outside the packed church, Truman was seated with both Kennedy and Eisenhower, all three in the same front pew, Truman and Eisenhower looking—as the nation saw on television—like very elder statesmen indeed, next to the young President. For Truman, with his fond memories of Rayburn, it was a particularly painful ceremony; but like the Marshall funeral, it was another step in what was becoming a slow but steady reconciliation with Eisenhower.

  For eight years, Truman had hoped Eisenhower would sometime call on him for advice or ask him to take on a project, as Truman had asked Herbert Hoover, but it had never happened. Nor did it now with Kennedy, and Truman felt terribly let down. “You are making a contribution,” he told Acheson, who was being called on by Kennedy for advice. “I am not. Wish I could.”

  The morning walks continued, though he went accompanied now by a bodyguard, a big, solid-looking Independence police officer in plain clothes named Mike Westwood, who was being paid by the town and would stay at Truman’s side in all seasons.

  His chief pleasures remained constant—his books, his library, his correspondence with Acheson, his family. To Clifton Daniel, he was the ideal father-in-law, “just great,” never interfering, always considerate. “ ‘Give-’em-hell Harry’ didn’t give anybody hell at home,” Daniel would remember.