During these early months of the second term, Myron C. Taylor, the President’s personal representative to the Vatican, resigned and Dad was faced with the problem of finding a replacement for this politically sensitive post. Monsignor Tiernan, Dad’s old regimental chaplain, was retiring from the army after long service and was having a checkup at Walter Reed Hospital. Dad went over to see him and propositioned him, Baptist style. “Padre,” he said, “I need someone to get at the Pope through the back door and I think you are the one to do it.”
“I don’t want that job,” said Monsignor Tiernan. “I’m through working.”
Another man with whom Dad conferred at the opening of the second term was Herbert Hoover. He had drawn him out of retirement to do an exhaustive study of the government, and recommend a sweeping reorganization to improve the efficiency of the executive branch. Hoover was deeply touched by this recognition, and he and Dad soon became close friends. One day, in a rush of emotion, he said, “Mr. President, I think you have added ten years to my life by giving me this job.”
On August 10, 1949, Dad sent the former President the following telegram:
THIS SHOULD BE AMONG YOUR HAPPIEST BIRTHDAYS. THE YEAR IMEDIATELY BEHIND YOU HAS BEEN MARKED BY THE COMPLETION OF A NOTABLE REPORT WHICH WILL BEAR YOUR NAME. THAT REPORT REFLECTS THE RIPE JUDGMENT AND WISDOM WHICH YOU BROUGHT TO THE WORK OF THE HOOVER COMMISSION OUT OF YEARS OF STUDY AND EXPERIENCE IN GOVERNMENT SERVICE. I TRUST THAT MANY BIRTHDAYS AND MANY FRUITFUL YEARS LIE AHEAD ALL MADE HAPPY BY OCNTINUED SERVICE IN THE CAUSE OF EFFICIENCY IN GOVERNMENT AND IN RESPECT AND AFFECTION OF YOUR FELLOW COUNTRYMEN.
During the summer of 1949, I had a delightful opportunity to even a score with Dad - a little bit, anyway. After all those years of being lectured and accused about my non-letter-writing, I was relaxing in Independence when I got a non-letter from him - a mere postcard. I promptly went out and bought a local postcard, a glossy full-color photograph of our house. The caption read: “Independence, Missouri - Summer White House.” It went on to tell how this spacious mid-Victorian home was built about eighty years ago by Mrs. Truman’s grandfather, George Porterfield Gates. “The house has fourteen rooms and has been completely remodeled and redecorated to meet the requirements of the President and his family.” Beside that bit of baloney I wrote: “And I know who did it! Me!” (This was a tribute to a recent outburst of energy on my part which involved painting the kitchen.) Beneath this bravado, I wrote: “Passed through here on my way from Kansas City to Grandview and stopped by this historic spot. . . . The X marks the room of its most famous resident. You send me cards, all you get is a card.”
Guess whose room I marked with an X?
The chief reason Dad’s optimism soared in these first eighteen months of his second term was the smooth operation of the White House and the various agencies he had created to assist the President in policy forming and decision making. The Joint Chiefs of Staff, the National Security Council, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Council of Economic Advisers - all of these things did not exist when my father became President. Along with all his other problems, he had to tackle the job of organizing the White House to enable the United States to assume the leadership of the free world.
Best of all, the White House staff was operating with efficiency and loyalty and a minimum of palace guard tactics. There was one man who was most responsible for this phenomenon, in the opinion of almost every ex-aide with whom I have talked while preparing this book. He was Charles S. Murphy, the steady, genial lawyer from North Carolina. Everything began to mesh beautifully from the day Charlie arrived on the scene, early in 1947. He shared Dad’s calm, persistent approach to problems, and his awareness that they could not be solved by a slogan. Not only was his advice invaluable, thanks to his years as counsel to the Senate, but he was also a speechwriter of extraordinary talent.
Charlie, who is a modest man, insists the President deserves most of the credit for the way the White House was run. The key to making the gears mesh was the morning staff meeting which usually took place at 9:30 a.m. It lasted thirty minutes and was attended by some ten or twelve staff members. On his desk, Dad had a file with slots marked with the name of each man. He would look through this and hand the various men papers from their respective slots. Then each man was given a chance to speak. Current problems were discussed, appointments were arranged, and by the time the meeting was over, thirty minutes later, everyone knew what was going on in everybody else’s bailiwick. “There was always time for some humor in these meetings,” Charlie says. “And notwithstanding the fact that we all felt somewhat as if we were living in the eye of a hurricane, these staff meetings were usually relaxed. In fact, as I look back, I think they may have been the most relaxed periods that most of us enjoyed during the day.”
The liveliest staff meetings took place before a press conference. At that time, the aides would discuss the most likely questions to be asked, and Dad would discuss possible answers with them. Charlie Ross, as the working newspaperman of the group, developed a technique which was really startling. He would set aside three or four nasty questions in his mind, and in the midst of discussing another issue he would suddenly lash out with one of these toughies, in a harsh, almost insulting way. More than once, Dad almost lost his temper - which was exactly what Charlie was trying to prevent in the press conference. It was a rugged approach to preparation, but Dad and Charlie Ross both felt it was worth it. I doubt very much if any other President ever had a press secretary toughen him up this way. It was only possible because Dad and Charlie were such old and close friends.
There was a tremendous frankness between Dad and his staff. On neither side was anyone ever afraid to say exactly what they thought. There were times when Dad became discouraged about the way things were going. That was when his humility almost got out of control, and he would begin talking about the possibility that there were other people in the country who could do the job of President a lot better than he was doing it.
One of the staff would clear his throat, in the midst of one of these monologues, and say, “What did the cook say to the admiral, Mr. President?”
Dad would grin, shake his head, and remember a story Admiral Nimitz had told him. It seems there was once an admiral who had a birthday party aboard his flagship. The cook baked him a cake, and the admiral, very pleased by all the attention he was getting, laid on the praise with a trowel. “Cook,” he said, “this is a fine cake. It’s one of the best cakes I ever ate. I never ate a cake as light as this.” On and on he babbled, praising the cake’s color, its icing, its filling, its color, its size, its taste on the tongue and in the stomach.
Finally, the cook, a big black man, couldn’t stand it any longer. “Admiral,” he said, “you sure do talk silly.”
Dad took great pains to have his staff organized with just the right balance between definite continuing responsibilities and flexibility to meet special problems. He knew there was an inevitable human temptation to build empires, especially for men so close to the seat of power. The staff reported directly to him at all times. But he also insisted the Director of the Budget, Cabinet members, the Council of Economic Advisers, and other executive office units also have access to him directly. “Incidentally,” Charlie says, “the President was quite an ego deflater in a gentle way.”
Dad used to call the staff his “crew.” Looking back, he is proudest of the fact that “not one of them went out and wrote a book on me.” This perhaps is the best evidence of the loyalty and deep affection Dad generated. There was a definite family feeling between him and all the men around him. When one of them was ill, or one of their relatives was ill, Dad was like a worried father, visiting them in the hospital, sending presents and get-well notes. An example of this feeling is a letter which his correspondence secretary, Bill Hassett, wrote to Dad in the summer of 1950.
Dad had written “the Bishop” a warm note the previous day telling him how much he appreciated him staying on the job, in spite of his obvio
us desire to retire. He had been working those outrageous White House hours for so many years. (He had also been Roosevelt’s correspondence secretary.) Bill was a great asset to Dad. Not only did he have a delightful sense of humor and an unlimited vocabulary, as well as a fund of good stories and jokes, but he could write the friendliest letter with the most words saying absolutely nothing, turning down a request or soothing an irate voter. We used to call them “Hassett Valentines.”
Bill responded to Dad’s praise with words that sum up the feelings Dad inspired in his “crew.”
Dear Mr. President:
What can I say in acknowledgment of your letter of August 4th which you just handed to me - a letter so generous in its terms that it arouses sentiments not only of heartfelt appreciation but of deep humility as well? Few men could merit such trust and confidence. To you I owe a debt of gratitude difficult to estimate and beyond all power of mine to repay.
As men we repress sentiment. We do our best to conceal our affection for one another; and yet I am sure you know the happiness that has been mine in your service and the inmost promptings of my heart. So worthy or unworthy, on to the undiscovered end, I am yours to command, Mr. President.
Affectionately,
Bill
EARLY IN THE morning on June 24, 1950, Dad dashed off the following carefree letter to Stanley Woodward, the former head of protocol for the State Department, whom he had recently appointed ambassador to Canada.
Dear Stanley:
. . . I am leaving for Baltimore shortly to dedicate an airport - why I don’t know. I guess because the Governor of Maryland, the two Senators from that great state, all the Congressmen and the Mayor of Baltimore highpressured me into doing it.
What I started out to do was to tell, ask, invite or order you to Key West this coming winter. I’ve been looking over the report of our last visit. Don’t get the idea that just because you are now Mr. Ambassador that the guy in the White House can’t still harass you.
Seriously, Stanley, if we go south again I hope you will be able to come for a visit.
My best to Mrs. Ambassador.
Sincerely,
Harry S. Truman
I’m going home from Baltimore to see Bess, Margie and my brother and sister - oversee some fence building - not political, order a new roof on the farmhouse and tell some politicians to go to hell. A grand visit - I hope?
Obviously, my father had no sense of impending trouble. Later in the morning, he dedicated Friendship International Airport in Baltimore. He talked about the need for federal, state, and local cooperation in the development of airports and similar transportation projects, sounding one of his favorite themes - the importance of planning for the future, in spite of the croakers of doom who saw every change as a potential disaster.
If we had listened to the old mossbacks . . . we would never have given up the stagecoach. Some of these old stagecoach mossbacks are still with us - still in Congress, if you please. But thank God they are not in the majority. . . .
This airport exemplifies the spirit of growth and confidence with which our country faces the future. We would not build so elaborate a facility for our air commerce if we did not have faith in a peaceful future. This airport embodies our determination to develop the marvels of science and invention for peaceful purposes. It strengthens our economy to do its part in maintaining a peaceful world.
There were strong echoes of Dad’s five-year plan for peace in these words, of his determination to achieve a position in the world where we could negotiate from strength with communism.
As soon as my father finished this speech, he boarded the Independence and headed for Kansas City. Mother and I were already there, and he was looking forward to spending a pleasant weekend with us, and as he told Stanley Woodward, paying a visit to his brother Vivian in Grandview, where they planned to discuss family and farm matters. Personally I was feeling rather pleased with life. I had just made my first national TV appearance on Ed Sullivan’s “Toast of the Town.” There were no clouds on my personal horizon, and no serious storm warnings on the Truman political horizon. Joe McCarthy was locked in combat with the Senate Foreign Relations Subcommittee headed by Senator Tydings of Maryland, and he seemed to be losing.
Mother and I were feeling so relaxed and lazy, we did not drive to Kansas City to meet Dad’s plane. He landed at two o’clock and was greeted by his sister Mary and several old Kansas City friends. We had a very pleasant family dinner around six o’clock and then migrated to our small book-crammed library for Truman-style small talk. About nine o’clock the telephone rang. It was Secretary of State Acheson.
“Mr. President,” he said, “I have very serious news. The North Koreans have invaded South Korea.”
My father asked Acheson whether he should return to Washington immediately. After considerable discussion, they decided against it, for two reasons. First, they did not know the real extent of the North Korean invasion. During the previous year, the North Koreans had made numerous raids across the frontier, sometimes involving as many as 1,500 men. Second, a night flight to Washington by the President of the United States was not only physically dangerous - it might panic the nation and the world.
None of us got much sleep that night. My father made it clear, from the moment he heard the news, that he feared this was the opening round in World War III. Large Bulgarian and Rumanian armies were massed on the border of Yugoslavia, which had broken with Stalin the previous year and asked for our support. There was a huge Russian garrison in East Germany. Iran and Turkey were, we knew, equally threatened by powerful Russian forces just across the border.
The next morning, my father issued orders, commander-in-chief style. We were to act as normal and as unconcerned as possible and do all the things we usually did on a Sunday morning. Mother and I went to church, and Dad drove out to the family farm to see his brother Vivian. He looked over new equipment Uncle Vivian had installed, such as an electric milking machine, and then drove back to Grandview. He told no one about his conversations with Secretary Acheson, not even his brother Vivian, who was quite disappointed when Dad explained he could not stay for the family dinner they had planned to have around noon.
Back home in Independence, my father was handed the cable which our ambassador to South Korea, John Muccio, had sent to the State Department the previous evening. It read:
ACCORDING KOREAN ARMY REPORTS WHICH PARTLY CONFIRMED BY KMAG [KOREAN MILITARY ADVISORY GROUP] FIELD ADVISER REPORTS NORTH KOREAN FORCES INVADED ROK [REPUBLIC OF KOREA] TERRITORY AT SEVERAL POINTS THIS MORNING. ACTION WAS INITIATED ABOUT FOUR A.M. ONGJIN BLASTED BY NORTH KOREAN ARTILLERY FIRE. ABOUT SIX A.M. IN ONGJIN AREA, KAESONG AREA, CHUN CHON AREA AND AMPHIBIOUS LANDING WAS REPORTEDLY MADE SOUTH OF KANGNUNG ON EAST COAST. . . . IT WOULD APPEAR FROM NATURE OF ATTACK AND MANNER IN WHICH IT WAS LAUNCHED THAT IT CONSTITUTES AN ALL-OUT OFFENSIVE AGAINST ROK.
MUCCIO
In spite of this grim news, my father still hoped to remain in Independence until the next day and return to Washington according to his already announced schedule. Foremost in his mind was the need to prevent panic and thus confine the conflagration. From the moment he heard the news, he was thinking of ways to prevent this act of aggression from becoming World War III.
For Mother and me, these were the most anxious hours we had spent with Dad since the night of April 12, 1945. I went about the motions of living, going to church, kneeling, standing, singing hymns, coming home, having Sunday dinner, feeling but not feeling, trying to realize what was happening - and failing.
In Washington, the teletype machines were chattering. At 8:00 a.m., General Douglas MacArthur sent a personal message to the Defense Department giving details of the North Korean invasion and commenting: “Enemy effort serious in strength and strategic intent and is undisguised act of war subject to United Nations censure.” The General added that he was placing all ammunition available in his command at the disposal of the South Korean armed forces.
At 12:35 p.m.
, Independence time, Secretary of State Acheson called Dad. Mother and I had gotten back from church only minutes before the call came. The news was growing rather grim. The North Korean attack was spearheaded by over a hundred modern tanks, and amphibious landings had been made at seven points along the east coast of South Korea. Tank-led columns were already threatening the South Korean capital of Seoul and vital Kimpo Airport. The Secretary of State recommended an immediate call for a UN Security Council meeting to adopt a resolution asking all the members of the UN to take action under the “last resort” clause of the UN Charter - “Threats to the peace, breaches of the peace, and acts of aggression.” Dad agreed completely and authorized him to issue the call immediately.
At the same time, my father decided on an immediate return to Washington. He told Acheson he wanted all the available top people from the State and Defense Departments to join him for dinner and a conference at Blair House that evening. Calmly, he sat down at the dining room table and ate lunch, and told us the bad news. Meanwhile, assistant press secretary Eben Ayers and Secret Service man Jim Rowley were phoning aides and the crew of the Independence. At 1:20, only forty minutes after he made the decision, we left Independence for Kansas City Municipal Airport. There was no time to tell the reporters what was happening so they could get an airplane ready and follow him. At exactly 2:13, the Independence roared down the runway and was airborne. Although I have no recollection of actually praying, there is a picture of me with my hands clasped together under my chin. It was a gesture that accurately expressed what I was feeling at that moment.
My father landed in St. Louis to pick up John Snyder and then flew east. From the air, he wired Charles Claunch, the White House usher, to warn him a “very important dinner” should be ready at Blair House by 8:30. Acheson would give him the guest list. Claunch called Alonzo Fields, the head butler at the White House, who recruited two cooks and made up a menu en route to Blair House in a taxi.
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