Harry accepted their offer at once, with no hesitation. To a friend he wrote, “They are trying to run me for Eastern Judge, out in Independence, and I guess they’ll do it before they are through.” This was in a letter dated February 4, 1922, suggesting the anonymous “they” already had things so well in hand there could be no turning back. At a meeting at Mike’s Tenth Ward Democratic Club, Harry sat quietly as Mike, who disliked making speeches, got up and said, “Now, I’m going to tell you who you are going to be for, for county judge. It’s Harry Truman. He’s got a fine war record. He comes from a fine family. He’ll make a fine judge.”
Had he wished, Mike could also have stressed that Harry Truman was a Baptist and a Mason who could talk farming with farmers as no big-city Irish politician ever could, that Harry was of old pioneer stock, the son of an honest farmer and an honest road overseer, that Harry was a fresh face in county politics, and, not incidentally, known himself to be an honest and honorable man—strong attributes under any circumstances, but ideal for what the organization needed to win the country vote. Indeed, for the Pendergasts’ purposes, Harry Truman was just about ideal, a dream candidate, which is what led some to observe then, as later, that he offered more to the Pendergasts than they to him.
“Old Tom Pendergast wanted to have some window-dressing,” Harry’s friend Harry Vaughan would later explain, “and Truman was really window-dressing for him because he could say, ‘Well, there’s my boy Truman. Nobody can ever say anything about Truman. Everybody thinks he’s okay.’ ”
For Harry, the timing could not have been better. He badly needed rescuing. To some latter-day admirers and students of his career, the suggestion that he turned to politics in desperation, because of his business failure, would be unacceptable, a fiction devised to cast him in the worst possible light. It would be stressed that his interest in politics was longstanding, that the Pendergasts had come to him, not he to them, and that in any event their power then was by no means absolute, hardly enough to dictate a political destiny. And all this was true. Yet to Harry himself there was never much question about the actual state of his affairs or to whom he owed the greatest debt of gratitude.
“Went into business all enthusiastic. Lost all I had and all I could borrow,” he would write in a private memoir. “Mike Pendergast picked me up and put me into politics and I’ve been lucky.” Mike was nothing less than his “political mentor,” continued Harry. “I loved him as I did my own daddy.”
He remembered he had been standing behind the counter “feeling fairly blue” the day Mike and Jim came into the store. What he wished to make especially clear was not that the Pendergasts had played no part of consequence, or that he had little indebtedness to them, but that it was Mike, not Tom, the Big Boss, whose interest made the difference. Harry was not even to meet Tom Pendergast for some time to come.
The job of eastern judge paid $3,465 a year. If elected, Harry would serve two years.
His Army friends were nearly unanimous for the idea. Only a few tried to dissuade him. Eddie McKim, his former sergeant, told him he was crazy. When Harry sat down with Edgar Hinde, in Hinde’s Willys-Overland garage in Independence, to explain what he was about to do—grinning, as Hinde recalled—Hinde told him he wasn’t the political type, to which Harry responded, “Well, I’ve got to eat.”
To sample opinion among those of the older generation who had influence in Independence, Harry called on Colonel William Southern, editor of the Examiner. Colonel Southern, whose rank was strictly honorary, was the father of May Southern Wallace, Bess’s brother George’s wife, which, in a manner of speaking, made him one of the family, as well as someone whose goodwill and backing could matter significantly. A short, pink-faced, cigar-chewing man with a goatee, who customarily wore his hat at his desk, the colonel listened patiently to Harry, then told him what a fool he would be to “mess up” his life with politics. “I told him all the bad effect a life of chronic campaigning could have on a man,” he would later recount. “I told him how poor were its rewards…how undermining the constant need for popular approval could be to a man’s character.” Harry, smiling, only shook his head and said he had made up his mind.
What opinions Bess had, what her mother was saying privately, or Mamma Truman thought, are not recorded. Ethel Noland, it is known, strongly approved and would later explain Harry’s willingness to take up with the Pendergasts as succinctly as anyone would: “They always like to pick winners, and they endorsed him. And, indeed, if he hadn’t been endorsed by the machine he couldn’t have run. He was very grateful to them….”
IV
Candidate Truman opened his campaign two months short of his thirty-eighth birthday, March 8, 1922, at a rousing, foot-stamping rally of war veterans in an auditorium at Lee’s Summit. About three hundred people turned out for speeches, free cigars, and music, and to see Harry Truman launched, ostensibly, as the American Legion candidate, an idea acclaimed as admirably new and progressive. (“If they [the veterans] want to mix in politics it is their right and when they take such matters into their hands they will settle affairs of state as they settled the Kaiser’s in France,” said the Lee’s Summit Journal.) The Battery D “Irish bunch” were there in force, along with a “sprinkling” of Pendergast people. Harry, when introduced by former Colonel E. M. Stayton, another veteran of the Argonne, said he was willing to run and was only just able to say that, so “thoroughly rattled” was he by stage fright. “That first meeting was a flop for me,” he would recall long years afterward. “I was scared worse than I was when I first came under fire in 1918.” But his speech was all the crowd wanted. The highlight of the evening came when Ethel Lee Buxton of Kansas City, who had been a Red Cross entertainer in France, sang “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” then closed with “Mother Machree.”
Another evening Harry spoke at Grandview, another from a rough wooden platform in front of the Hickman’s Mills church, and on neither occasion was he able to say much more than that he was in the race and welcomed the support of his friends. At Hickman’s Mills the introduction was made by his old neighbor O. V. Slaughter, who had headed the Jackson County Red Cross during the war and was now president of the Grandview Bank, the kind of man who knew senators and governors, yet remained “strictly and primarily” a farmer. Gray-bearded, he looked like an old-style patriarch, and though seldom known to speak in public, he was considered highly persuasive when he did. One line only would be remembered from his remarks. “I knew Harry Truman before he was born,” he said, and to others who had known John and Matt Truman, or who, like Slaughter, remembered Solomon and Harriet Louisa Young, no stronger endorsement could have been spoken. Reportedly there were only three votes in the precinct against Harry.
Four other Democrats were in the race—a farmer and road overseer named Thomas Parent; an Independence businessman, James V. Compton; another Independence man, George W. Shaw, who was a road contractor; and Emmett Montgomery, a banker from Blue Springs—and all were thought formidable opponents. Parent had the support of a former judge, a flashy politician named Miles Bulger, who was neither Rabbit nor Goat but a spoiler. Compton had served previously on the court and could stress the value of experience. Shaw was known to be honest, which, as Harry said, was considered unique in a contractor. But the man to beat was Emmett Montgomery, the Rabbit candidate.
Harry Truman stood for better roads and a return to sound management of county business. The most that could be said for his early speeches was that they were brief. One, at a night rally at Sugar Creek, an oil refinery town in the lowlands by the river just north of Independence, was remembered by Edgar Hinde as “the poorest effort of a speech I ever heard in my life. I suffered for him.” But as the weeks wore on, and with the oncoming summer and the increased demands of a “hot race,” the speeches improved somewhat. “If you’re going to be in politics,” Harry later reflected, “you have to learn to explain to people what you stand for, and to learn to stand up in front of a crowd and talk was just
something I had to do, so I went ahead and did it.”
Edgar Hinde, Eddie McKim, Tom Murphy, and Ted Marks worked steadily, knocking on doors, handing out leaflets, showing up wherever and whenever needed. “We’d do whatever was necessary to help Harry,” remembered Tom Murphy, who had been a sergeant in Battery D. As the campaign went on, Murphy, McKim, and the others put out a flyer proclaiming Harry Truman “the best liked and the most beloved Captain, officer in France or elsewhere.”
Frank and George Wallace lent a hand. Harry’s former Latin teacher, Ardelia Hardin Palmer, organized a door-to-door canvass in Independence to bring out the women’s vote, a new element in the political picture.
Harry spoke at White Oak, Raytown, Lone Jack, Englewood, and Blue Springs. He covered every township and precinct, driving himself in the old four-cylinder Dodge over roads so rough he had to put sacks of cement in the trunk for ballast, to keep the car from slamming him through the windshield.
The main event of the political summer took place in July, a picnic at Oak Grove attended by four thousand people, twice the number expected. Every Democratic candidate was scheduled to speak. As a way of giving Harry added attention, Eddie McKim arranged for him to arrive by airplane. Harry and the pilot, another war veteran named Clarence England, sailed over the crowd in the open cockpits of a two-seat Jenny of the kind flown in France. After circling several times, dropping leaflets, they landed in a pasture beside the picnic ground, stopping with difficulty just short of a barbed-wire fence. As the crowd rushed forward, the candidate climbed out, leaned over the fence, and became violently ill. Apparently it had been his first ride in a plane. He then proceeded to the rostrum.
It was by far the largest crowd he had ever faced and an opportunity, he knew, such as he had not been given before. He was the last to speak. “I am now going to tell you what I stand for and why you should vote for me,” he began in a flat, rapid voice. “The time has arrived for some definite policy to be pursued in regard to our highways and our finances. They are so closely connected with our tax problem that if they are properly cared for the tax problem will care for itself….”
Eddie McKim, remembering earlier appearances in the campaign, thought Harry had come a long way. A style was evolving. Having stated the problem, he proceeded to a solution joined to a fundamental philosophy plainly expressed.
“I want men for road overseers who know roads and who want work—men who will do a day’s work for a day’s pay, who will work for the county as they would for themselves. I would rather have 40 road men for overseers who are willing to work than to have 60 politicians who care nothing about work. I believe that honest work for the county is the best politics anyway.”
Running the county into debt was bad business and bad politics, he said. He wanted it stopped.
Thus far in the campaign only one charge had been brought against him—that in an election in 1920 he had voted for a Republican, Major John Miles, who had been his superior officer at the Argonne. It was the worst his opponents had been able to come up with, and given the spirit of Jackson County politics, it was a serious charge. He chose the moment now to explain himself.
“You have heard it said that I voted for John Miles as County Marshal. I’ll plead guilty…along with 5,000 other ex-soldiers. I was closer to John Miles than a brother. I have seen him in places that would make hell look like a playground.” His tone was flat no longer.
I have seen him stick to his guns when Frenchmen were falling back. I have seen him hold the American line when only John Miles and his three batteries were between the Germans and a successful counterattack. He was of the right stuff and a man who didn’t vote for his comrade under circumstances such as these would be untrue to himself and to his country. My record has been searched and this is all my opponents can say about me and you knowing the facts can appreciate my position. I know that every soldier understands it. I have no apology to make for it. John Miles and my comrades in arms are closer than brothers to me. There is no way to describe the feeling. But my friend John is the only Republican I ever voted for and I don’t think that counts against me.
At that moment, for many who were listening, the primary election for eastern judge was over, and Harry Truman had won.
No county election in years had aroused such interest, a phenomenon attributed by some to the novelty of the women’s vote. Harry, however, was dwelling more and more on what the influence might be of the Ku Klux Klan, the growing strength of which was another sign of the times. Crosses had been burned near Lee’s Summit. Klan membership was growing in Independence and two of his opponents, Parent and Shaw, had Klan support. Edgar Hinde urged Harry to sign up with the Klan, to join immediately, convinced it was “good politics.” Hinde himself had already joined, “to see what was going on, you know,” as he later explained. A Klan organizer named “Jones” told him to bring Harry in any time, saying it was all Harry had to do to guarantee Klan backing.
Harry refused at first, but then gave Hinde $10 for membership. “Jones” insisted on meeting Harry privately at the Baltimore Hotel and Harry agreed. But when at the meeting “Jones” told him he would get no support unless he promised never to hire Catholics if elected, Harry ended the discussion. He had commanded a mostly Catholic battery in France, he said, and he would give jobs to whomever he saw fit. Apparently the $10 was returned.
It had been a grievous mistake ever to have said he would join in the first place. It was an act either of amazing naivete, or one revealing a side he had not shown before, a willingness under pressure to sacrifice principle for ambition. Either way the whole incident was shabby and out of character, and hardly good politics. How he thought Klan support might offset the devastating effect such an alliance would have on the Pendergasts—not to say the effect on his own beloved “Irish bunch”—is difficult to imagine.
In his defense later, it would be said that the Klan in 1922 seemed still a fairly harmless organization to which a good God-fearing patriot might naturally be attracted, that it offered a way for those who felt at odds with the changes sweeping the country to make known their views. Yet only the year before Harry had lent his support to a Masonic effort to suppress the Klan in St. Louis. He had to have known what the Klan was about. William Reddig of the Star would remember Jackson County Klansmen of the time as anything but good fellows. “They didn’t just hate Catholics, Jews, and Negroes,” Reddig wrote. “They hated everybody.”
A rumor was now circulated by the Klan that Harry’s grandfather, Solomon Young, was a Jew. At a Klan meeting in Independence just before the primary on August 1, a guest speaker from Atlanta said Harry Truman was less than 100 percent American—that is, not sufficiently opposed to Catholics and Jews. Edgar Hinde stood up and protested. There were shouts to throw him out. A friend of Harry’s from Grandview named Toliver rose to say they could throw him out, too, which, as Hinde remembered, had a “cooling influence.” But the Klan’s previous indifference to the Truman candidacy had ended.
He said later it was the soldier vote plus “kinfolks in nearly every precinct” that put him over. He would talk of being “accidentally” elected and suggest that his failure with the haberdashery also had an important influence. “Most people were broke and they sympathized with a man in politics who admitted his financial condition.” Others close to the campaign said the deciding factor was Harry Truman. People liked him—and largely because he so obviously liked them and being among them.
Privately, Harry was disappointed in the efforts of the Pendergast people in his behalf. He had expected more.
The campaign ended with a big Saturday night rally at the courthouse. On election day cars covered with placards were busy back and forth across town bringing people to the polls. “The smell of old ’alky, hooch, and ‘good’ whiskey is on the breath of many a man,” wrote Colonel Southern, a teetotaler.
As the day wore on, the rough play began. At a polling place at Fairmont Junction, close to the Kansas City line, an armed
gang of Shannon henchmen tried to make off with the ballot box before the Pendergast people could get to it, only to be confronted by two deputy marshals who had rushed to the scene on orders from Harry’s Republican friend, Marshal John Miles. Guns were drawn, when suddenly Shannon himself materialized out of the shadows and with the barrel of Deputy John W. Gibson’s 45-caliber automatic pressing on his ample stomach, announced it would be best if everybody quieted down and went home. Had Shannon’s men succeeded in their mission, Harry would most likely have lost the election. As it was he defeated the Rabbit candidate, Emmett Montgomery, by a bare 279 votes out of a total (for all five in the race) of more than 11,000.
It was “the damn Republicans” who were to blame, Joe Shannon complained bitterly. If they had only kept out of things, Harry Truman would never have won. Probably that was so. Deputy Gibson, the man with the 45, was, like John Miles, a veteran of the 129th Field Artillery.
V
The fall electi on was a formality only—every Democrat won—and on New Year’s Day, 1923, in a ceremony at the courthouse, the new county court was seated. The other two judges were Elihu Hayes and Henry McElroy. Hayes was the presiding judge, and though a Rabbit, “a fine old gentleman” in Harry’s estimate. McElroy, the new western judge, was a through-and-through Goat and close associate of Tom Pendergast, a spare, bucktoothed, ambitious businessman commonly praised for his efficiency. The huge basket of red roses in the courtroom was the gift of McElroy admirers from Little Italy.
To be called “Judge” pleased Harry immensely. He enjoyed the prestige of the job and the way people greeted him as he walked briskly to and from the courthouse. He had rank again.
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