Target Churchill Page 20

  Shedding the Roosevelt mantle had been an arduous task for Truman. Although he did admire the former president and was indebted to him for appointing him vice president, he continued to be resentful of the man’s death at that critical time. It was a foolish, he knew, but he had been completely unprepared, and the year of catch-up had presented him with enormous challenges. It might have been less of a chore if he had been fully briefed beforehand. Nevertheless, despite his initial bewilderment, Truman’s confidence in himself never flagged. He wished he had been more involved during the eighty-eight days of Roosevelt’s presidency, twenty-five of which he had been away.

  He had met with Roosevelt as vice president only twice before he died. He remembered how shocked he was seeing him face-to-face on his last visit. The hollow cheeks and pallid face suggested he was dying, although at the time, Truman had never acknowledged it to himself. Nor, he supposed, had Roosevelt.

  Obviously, the man knew he was sick and kept it a secret from the public, who never saw him in a wheelchair. Did he believe he was immortal? Why he never prepared his vice president for the postwar world would always remain a mystery to Truman. He had been chosen for political reasons and was considered, even by himself, as strictly a political prop.

  Above all, Truman knew that good health was essential to the enormous pressures of the presidency. He was well aware of his own strong constitution, and his vigorous daily walk and occasional swim in the White House pool was part of a regular regimen. Roosevelt had been too ingenuous about his declining health. There was evidence as well, that Churchill, despite his pink cherubic complexion had sporadic heart problems. On a previous visit to the White House during Roosevelt’s time, he had been rumored to have had a mild heart attack.

  For this reason, his own trusted physician, Doctor Wallace Graham, was aboard the train, and he had made arrangements for emergency medical services to be on hand and available at the college.

  Despite his freak advancement to the presidency, Truman thought, in hindsight, that Roosevelt’s running for a fourth term had been a fatal mistake. Unfortunately, the dead president had been a one-man band and, as a consequence, never gave himself permission to contemplate dying in office and leaving his handpicked vice president in charge.

  Truman was aware of what was being said behind his back at the time: failed haberdasher, good old boy flunky for the Prendergast machine, badly educated, not a college graduate, an inconsequential Senator from an insignificant border state. Roosevelt, they had also said during the campaign, will stick him in the closet and close the door on him for the next four years.

  Worse, Truman had not been privy to any cables informing Roosevelt of the war’s progress and the complicated issues that the Allies and their fair-weather friend, the Soviet Union, would face when the fighting was over. The gaps in his knowledge of the war years and the machinations of the White House were profoundly complicated, and he knew it. It was this shortfall of knowledge that bothered him most.

  There was also the lack of personal chemistry between him and Winston Churchill. A unique chemistry had bonded Roosevelt and Churchill and, giving credit where credit was due, helped make the great Atlantic Alliance workable, which was essential to winning the war in Europe in the end. There were so many things to learn. Sure, he revered and respected Roosevelt, but the ball was in his court now, and heeding the sign he placed on his desk, The Buck Stops Here, he had no illusions about what he was up against.

  At the time of Roosevelt’s death, he had no knowledge of the building of the atomic bomb. He was flabbergasted to hear about it two days after he was sworn in and even more stunned to learn about its destructive power. What appalled him further was that, according to intelligence reports, the Russians had known about its development since 1942. One of his aides had discovered an unsigned Roosevelt memo, prepared by Harry Hopkins and Alger Hiss, indicating that he was open to sharing the method for making the bomb with Stalin. Apparently—Truman had learned at Potsdam—Stalin fully expected the Americans to share information on new weapons with the Russians. Had Roosevelt privately suggested such an arrangement? Had Truman been expected to make good on such an alleged promise?

  Five months into his presidency, he had been called upon to make the most momentous decision in the history of the world. While sailing home from Potsdam, he gave the order to drop the bomb on Hiroshima. Despite the tragic carnage, he had lost no sleep over it. The best estimate was that the invasion of Japan would cost five hundred thousand American casualties, a situation to be avoided at all costs.

  Unfortunately, to his chagrin, he had to make the decision twice since it was obvious that the stupidly stubborn and fanatic Japanese warlords needed more convincing. He’d let history make its own judgment of his actions. His decision had ended the war; wasn’t that the primary mission of the Commander-in-Chief? Would Roosevelt have made the same decision? Of course! Why then develop the bomb in the first place? He felt certain that if the war in Europe had continued, Roosevelt would not have hesitated to drop the bomb on Germany. Nor would he.

  In the end, it was his decision to make, his decision alone, and he would stick by it to his grave.

  Churchill was late and the president was getting impatient. He turned to his friend and military aide, General Harry Vaughn. The heavyset man was his lifelong friend from their Missouri National Guard days. In the lonely mental sepulcher of the presidency, Truman welcomed the warmth and comfort of an old buddy.

  Unfortunately, much to Truman and Vaughn’s distress, The Washington Post referred to him as “the president’s poker-playing crony” as if it were one word. It was true, of course. Playing poker was one of the President’s greatest pleasures, and Harry Vaughn was a regular. Poker gave Truman a chance to unwind from the rigors and intensity of the presidency, and playing with pals had been a weekly ritual on the presidential yacht.

  He was looking forward to a game later during the eighteen-hour railroad trip. Perhaps, he could persuade Mr. Churchill to join the table. He was purported to be somewhat of a gambler.

  “Where the hell is he?” the President smirked. “You’d think he was still Prime Minister.”

  “He’ll be here. I’m told he’s always late,” Vaughan said.

  “You got me into this, Harry,” Truman said, referring to Vaughn’s ties to Westminster College. Vaughn had suggested Churchill as speaker and Truman as introducer, to show his personal clout to his buddies on the college board of trustees and to the President of the college, “Bullet” McCluer.

  After all, what good was it to be in the White House and close to the president if you couldn’t flex your muscle now and then and show the home folks you were, as they used to say: A Big Man on Campus?

  Truman was growing testy at Churchill’s tardiness. He watched the various members of the press milling around the gated entrance to the track. A few Baltimore & Ohio cars had been attached to the train for members of the press. A large group of onlookers had gathered to watch the proceedings, hoping to get a look at Churchill.

  “Did you read his speech?” Vaughn asked.

  “He won’t show it, and I would prefer not to read it, knowing how he feels about the Russians. I’ll bet he’ll give Stalin holy hell for the way the Commies are behaving these days. He never did believe the bastards would live up to their agreements. He has a point, but this is not the time for us to slam them; there is a lot of sympathy for them still. They made a hell of a lot of sacrifices. Dammit, they lost seven million men on the battlefield, not to mention all the civilians the Germans killed. You can’t take that away from them.”

  “And they raped their way through Germany,” Vaughn grunted.

  “If conditions were reversed, and our soil was plundered and our citizens butchered, who knows what our boys might have done.”

  “We’re not that kind of people, Mr. President.”

  “Read history, Harry. As a committed Baptis
t, I guess you might say that I like to see the good in people not the bad. But as a student of history, such a view is suspect. It is not a pretty story.”

  Truman removed his glasses from his myopic eyes and wiped the lenses, squinting into the distance, then carefully put them on again.

  “Be nice to know what he’s going to say, especially since you’re going to introduce him,” Vaughn said.

  “Introduce, Harry, but not endorse. There is a difference. You got me into this, my friend—you and your buddies at the college. I’ll tell you this. He’s a rouser, a great showman, and a master wordsmith, but a bit of a snob, talked down to me at Potsdam. Those old Tories still think America is one of their colonies. All right, he was a pain in the ass. Hell, he kept pushing Eisenhower to go straight for Berlin.”

  “Not a bad idea if you ask me,” Vaughn said.

  “Hell, we’d be fighting the Russians,” Truman said. “It was a quagmire for Hitler and Napoleon, why not for us?”

  “We had the bomb. We could have wiped the floor with the bastards.”

  Truman looked at his old friend with mock severity.

  “Better not bandy that stuff around, Harry.”

  Despite this mild admonishment, Truman had no illusions about what direction Churchill would take in the Fulton speech, and he was fully prepared for a highly charged lobbying effort on Churchill’s part urging him to get tougher with the Russians. He fully expected Churchill to mount this onslaught on many fronts, sometimes subtle, sometimes blunt and blatant, but relentless and directed towards a single goal. Truman knew he had a nose for such salesmanship and felt clever enough to parry whatever thrusts Churchill made in his direction.

  While he was inclined to agree, his political instincts told him America was not ready to acknowledge any strong antagonisms to a valiant former ally. Already there had been ominous warnings from the U.S. diplomat George F. Kennan who was running the embassy in Moscow in the absence of the ambassador Averill Harriman. Kennan had warned, in what had become known as the “Long Telegram,” that the Russians were becoming a destabilizing influence in the postwar world.

  At this juncture, he was happy to let Churchill do the heavy lifting, although he didn’t want it to be too heavy. This was not the time to bash good old Uncle Joe.

  There were other problems on his mind as well, purely political. The Democratic Party was split down the middle, with the Left making noises to run their own candidate and the Right threatening a similar assault. He was particularly upset with the former vice president, Henry Wallace, whom he had appointed secretary of commerce. He was a damned fool and a tool of the hard Left and could be a potential opponent. He’d have to ask him to resign. As for that band of die-hard segregationists on the Right, they were a tough bunch, on the wrong side of history and fighting a lost cause. He had no choice but to fight them on both fronts if he wanted to stay in the White House.

  He was, after all, in the persuasion business and knew he had to woo some of the Lefties and Righties into the Democratic center if he had any chance of another term. While he agreed somewhat with Churchill’s known opinions of the Russians, he knew that any really hard criticisms now would push the Wallace supporters even further Left. As a political realist, he would, if the speech were too blatantly hostile to the Russians, have to distance himself from its full import.

  Suddenly, they heard a rousing cheer and cries of “Winnie! Winnie!” Through the train’s window, he saw Churchill being led through the crowd by a police escort. The former prime minister acknowledged the cheers and made his familiar V sign, which stimulated even more applause.

  “Son of a bitch has a flair for the dramatic. Makes me look like a bit player at a minstrel show.”

  Churchill moved along the platform accompanied by Thompson, his bodyguard, and a young woman, presumably his secretary. He was followed by a crowd of press people, photographers snapping pictures and shouting questions at him, the dominant theme of which was the content of his upcoming speech in Missouri. From his vantage, Truman was able to hear the shouted byplay.

  “Will it be another ‘blood, sweat, and tears’ speech?” a reporter shouted.

  “No blood, but lots of sweat and tears.”

  The reporter who shouted the question looked confused.

  “It’s what goes into composing a speech,” Churchill said. “Mostly sweat and tears.”

  “What are you going to talk about Mr. Churchill?”

  Churchill apparently recognized the reporter who asked that question.

  “Was it… Benson?” Churchill asked.

  “I’m going with you,” Benson said. “Can you give us a hint as to what your speech will contain?”

  “A lesson in history, Benson.”

  “But what lesson, sir?”

  Churchill’s blue eyes twinkled.

  “‘For now sits Expectation in the air,’” he called out, impishly.

  The reporters laughed. Exercising his sense of the dramatic, he paused in front of the observation car so that the photographers might get a glimpse of the presidential seal affixed to the gate.

  As he posed, the reporter who had been identified as Benson sidled over to the young woman near Churchill.

  “We’ve met, haven’t we?” Benson said.

  She glanced at him, blankly at first, then obviously remembering.

  “Oh, yes, I do remember.”

  “The first secretary introduced us. I see you’ve been promoted.”

  “Not really. Temporary duty. I’m taking Mr. Churchill’s dictation.”

  “Are you? Any crumbs for this hungry reporter?”

  “Sorry. My duties are confidential.”

  Benson nodded. She moved closer to Thompson, who had observed them.

  “See you in Fulton,” he waved.

  “You know him?” Thompson asked.

  “Met him at the embassy.”

  Thompson turned away.

  Posing for the photographers, Churchill gave his V sign again, and then following the policemen, he entered the observation car where the president and other U.S. officials had assembled to greet him. Churchill was introduced to Admiral Leahy, who had worked with Truman during the war, Charlie Ross, his press secretary, Harry Vaughn, his military aide, his physician, Wallace Graham, and his young naval aide, Clark Clifford.

  The press were herded away into their special car attached to the Magellan, and Thompson and Victoria were shown to Churchill’s quarters and their own.

  “Mr. President,” Churchill said, shaking hands.

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” Truman acknowledged.

  “Kind of you, sir,” Churchill said, smiling. “Would that I were.”

  He surveyed the interior of the observation lounge, which was fitted with comfortable blue chairs and couches.

  “Nice digs, Mr. President. Better than the ones I had as PM. I am also partial to trains and not a great fan of the ‘infernal combustion engine.’ Besides, my wife has forbidden me to fly. And I never disobey Clementine.”

  Nothing went past Churchill without some anecdote or bon mot, Truman knew. The man was an inveterate, habitual, and dominating talker, and Truman was prepared for being talked at ad infinitum throughout the trip. Not that he objected to the onslaught of words. The man was enormously interesting and surely thought he was the most captivating person in the room, which he was. Truman, always honest with himself, acknowledged that he was no match in the talk department, although he did believe he might give the man a run for his money, especially after two or three bourbons.

  Sitting down on one of the blue chairs, Churchill put the stump of his cigar in an ashtray on a small side table. The president sat facing him, while the others moved to other seats in the lounge.

  The train began to move out of the station and pick up speed.

  “I noticed that you posed before
the presidential seal,” Truman observed. “You may not know this, but I just had it changed.”

  “Changed?” Churchill seemed curious.

  “Before the change, the eagle was turned to face the arrows. I had it changed so that it now looks at the olive branch.”

  Truman felt proud of his change. It reflected America’s thrust toward peace.

  “With all due respect, Mr. President,” Churchill said. “I’d rather you had the eagle’s head on a swivel so that it could be turned between olive branches and arrows depending on the situation.”

  Truman chuckled appropriately and fully understood the observation as Churchill’s opening lobbying sally. After all, as a captain in the earlier war, he was an expert in artillery combat.

  “Let’s have a drink,” offered Truman, assuming that such a suggestion would be an icebreaker for them both during the long journey. He turned to his guest. “Mr. Churchill, we are going to be together on this train for some time. I don’t want to rest on formality so, I would ask you to call me Harry.”

  “I would be delighted to call you Harry.” Churchill paused. “And you must call me Winston.”

  “I just don’t know if I can do that. I have such admiration for you and what you mean, not only to your people, but to the country and the world.”

  Churchill smiled. “Yes, you can. You must or else I will not be able to call you Harry.”

  “Well, if you put it that way, Winston,” Truman said, secretly pleased. “I will call you Winston.”

  A white-coated black man approached and each ordered their drinks. Churchill called for scotch by brand, Johnny Walker Black, illustrating the desired measure by fingers, with “water, no ice.” Churchill chuckled. “When I was in South Africa as a young man, the water was not fit to drink. I have felt that way about water ever since, but I have learned that it can be made palatable by the addition of some whiskey.”

  The group, anticipating the legendary wit, laughed appropriately.

  Truman ordered bourbon and branch water.