(1884–1972)
Harry Truman was not given a full middle name at birth—simply the letter “S.” According to some accounts, “S” was arrived at because both of his grandfathers had an “S” that figured prominently in their names—and it was left at that so as not to favor one over the other.
Those interested in what presidents like to drink might have pushed for the letter “B” given Truman’s fondness for bourbon.
What’s particularly interesting about Truman and bourbon is that the thirty-third president (1945–1953) seemed to enjoy a shot of the amber-colored elixir not long after the break of dawn. But by no means did he limit his intake to that morning “nip.”
With or without bourbon, Truman had plenty of truly tough decisions to make, including giving final approval to drop the atom bombs on Japan and various difficult choices during the Korean War, not least of which the firing of the popular general Douglas MacArthur. The aftermath of Truman’s attempt to seize control of the U.S. steel industry—a dubious move foiled by the Supreme Court—involved a peace offering of bourbon in its denouement.
If there is a lasting image of Truman it is probably the one of him holding up the Chicago Tribune—its front page erroneously proclaiming: “DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN.” Consider that Harry Truman might have offered the Cheshire Cat a glass of bourbon in exchange for the feline’s classic grin on this particular occasion.
WEATHER, WHISKEY, AND DIAMONDS
Born (in 1884) and raised near Independence, Missouri, young Harry Truman attempted to woo one of the town’s best-known belles—Bess Wallace. He finally mustered up the right stuff and proposed to her in a letter. Relying on such diverse topics as weather and whiskey, before a smooth segue into the true aim of his letter, Harry wrote:
The elements evidently mistook one of my wishes for dry instead of wet. I guess we’ll all have to go to drinking whiskey if it doesn’t rain soon. Water and potatoes will soon be as much a luxury as pineapples and diamonds. Speaking of diamonds, would you wear a solitaire on your left hand should I get it?
Ms. Wallace managed to contain her enthusiasm for this initial proposal, but she did eventually marry Harry in 1919 after the artillery captain returned from the battlefields of France.
Harry Truman had rarely been out of Missouri, but the Great War (as it did with many young American “doughboys”) gave him a crash course in dealing with the French. Although a drink of whiskey was somewhat difficult to come by, the French soldiers and citizens had plenty of wine and brandy to offer—and the Americans had extremely parched throats to receive it.
Captain Truman commanded an artillery unit—Battery D, to be exact. On November 11, 1918—after days of rumors—the Germans signed an armistice and soldiers at the front received word to cease hostilities at 11:00 a.m. Truman’s battery fired its last round about fifteen minutes before the war officially ended.
Then it got very quiet—but not for very long. As Truman later recalled:
. . . a great cheer rose all along the line. We could hear the men in the infantry a thousand meters in front raising holy hell. The French battery behind our position were dancing, shouting and waving bottles of wine. . . . Celebration at the front went on the rest of the day and far into the night.
No doubt Truman would have preferred a shot of bourbon, but the occasion (and availability) called for French wine—and the jubilant French soldiers were more than willing to share.
I went to bed about 10 P.M. but the members of the French Battery insisted on marching around my cot and shaking hands. They’d shout “Vive le Capitaine Americain, vive le President Wilson,” take another swig from their wine bottles and do it over. It was 2 A.M. before I could sleep at all.
Truman spent about a year in France, but that he never became a fan of French wine—or, for that matter, French food—is a matter of record. One of his handwritten letters to sweetheart Bess in January 1919 left no doubt of that, while reaffirming his appreciation of bourbon, even in the face of the recently enacted Prohibition Act. As Truman put it:
For my part I’ve had enough vin rouge and frog-eater victuals to last me a lifetime. And anyway it looks to me like the moonshine business is going to be pretty good in the land of Liberty loans and green trading stamps, and some of us want to get in on the ground floor. At least we want to get there in time to lay in a supply for future consumption. I think a quart of bourbon would last me about forty years.
There is no doubt that Truman loved his men from Battery D and went out of his way to help organize and attend postwar reunions with those who served with him in France. The men loved Captain Truman, too, and more than one gave him credit for saving their lives.
The men admittedly were a rough and rowdy bunch, and sometimes proved to be an embarrassment for Truman back in the States. For example, at one of the gatherings in the early 1920s, the boys of Battery D—obviously drunk (Did Prohibition apply to war veterans?)—began tossing objects (rolls, dinner plates, glasses, and even a sugar bowl) at each other at an Elks Club they had rented out for the occasion. Although Truman was not one of the main combatants, it nevertheless fell on him to pay the damages the next day—which the future president sheepishly did.
By the time Truman ran for president in 1949, most of the surviving members of Battery D would have been over fifty. After he won, Truman invited them to a breakfast in the nation’s capital, just prior to his inauguration. Remembering some of their past shenanigans, Truman felt compelled to issue a plea for good behavior. As Frederick Bowman, one of the former artillery men, recalled:
Well . . . he had a breakfast for the Battery and his parting words as we left . . . [it was over about 9:00 a.m.] were, “Well, I’ve got a very busy morning and I hope you fellows will stay sober at least until I’m inaugurated into office, then I don’t care what you do.”
When Truman was sworn in as the new U.S. senator from Missouri in 1935, he (along with other newcomers to Congress) was marched before one of Washington’s most famous political characters—John “Cactus Jack” Garner of Texas, who was then speaker of the House.
As witnessed by James Aylward, a Missouri political operator, who accompanied Truman to his swearing in:
[Garner said] “Men, before we enter into these ceremonies, I’d like you all to join me in striking a blow for liberty.” So he got a jug that looked like corn liquor and we all pertook thereof.
Garner served as FDR’s vice president (1933 to 1941), though it would be an understatement to say he found the job less than satisfying. In fact, Cactus Jack (he won this moniker because he once lobbied to have the prickly pear cactus named as the Texas “state flower”) once infamously said that the vice president’s position was “not worth a bucket of warm piss.”
Truman was quite content to be a senator. But in 1945, President Roosevelt tapped him to be his vice president (replacing Henry Wallace, who had succeeded Garner). Truman reluctantly agreed when FDR—peeved at Truman’s initial resistance—played the “party loyalty” card.
Less than three months later, Truman adjourned the Senate then headed to House Speaker Sam Rayburn’s office (a typical stop for Truman) for an end-of-the-day drink. But before Truman even had his bourbon, he was told to call Stephen Early, FDR’s press secretary. Early told him to head to the White House immediately for an urgent announcement. By some accounts, Truman—sensing some sort of bombshell—blurted out: “Holy General Jackson!” and then hustled off to the White House.
When he got there, Truman was brought to Eleanor Roosevelt. The first lady gently informed him, “Harry, the President is dead.” Briefly stunned, Truman naturally responded by asking Eleanor if there was anything he could do? And Mrs. Roosevelt famously replied: “Is there anything we can do for you? Because you are the one in trouble now.”
A MORNING WALK WITH OLD GRAND-DAD
President Truman’s typical routine was to begin each day with a brisk walk, often as much as two miles. And sometime after the walk, the president enjoyed a vigorous massage.
But it was what Truman did in between his morning walk and the massage that was interesting: Truman knocked off an ounce (or so) of bourbon (typically Wild Turkey or Old Grand-Dad)—a classic “eye-opener” that the old artillery officer must have felt helped him take direct aim at the day. Truman was doubly sure to employ these daily tactics when he was off resting in one of his favorite hideaways, such as Key West, Florida—all this after a few hours of poker the previous night.
On April 8, 1952, President Truman attempted to take military control of the steel industry, fearing that a threatened national strike would hinder the American war efforts in Korea.
Several months later, the Supreme Court ruled against the president. Truman was piqued that the court had defied him. Three days later, Chief Justice Hugo Black invited the still-simmering president to an outdoor steak fry in a not-so-subtle attempt to smooth things over. Bourbon was served, too.
Truman sat almost silently for a while but eventually broke the tension with: “Hugo, I don’t much care for your law, but, by golly, this bourbon is good.”
In a 1972 CBS News interview, Justice William O. Douglas was a little more hard-boiled about Black’s get-together, noting: “We all went and poured a lot of bourbon down Harry Truman. . . . He didn’t change his mind, but he felt better, at least for a few hours.”
Truman and Winston Churchill respected and understood each other. When the recently disposed British leader (stunningly, Churchill had failed in his reelection bid for prime minister in 1945) arrived for an American visit in 1946, Truman—at the request of others—was able to get Churchill to agree to a speaking engagement at tiny Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri. They headed west from Washington, D.C., but traveling with “Winnie” also meant meeting certain expectations. As General Harry Vaughn, one of the Missouri-bound members of the party, recalled:
We got aboard the train and we’d gotten about . . . to Silver Springs (MD). Mr. Churchill and his secretary . . . and the President and I were sitting there in the car. The President said: “What do you have to do to get a drink on this . . . thing?”
So I pressed the button and a steward came in and pretty soon Mr. Churchill had a tall whiskey and soda in his hand. He held it up and let the light shine through it (it was about four o’clock in the afternoon) and he said: “You know, when I was a young subaltern in the South African War, the water was not fit to drink. To make it palatable, we had to put a bit of whiskey in it. By diligent effort I learned to like it.”
When the party arrived in Fulton, Missouri, the next day, the Americans realized that they were in a “dry” town—a definite dilemma when one considered their portly, distinguished guest and his well-known indulgences. At Truman’s request, Vaughn rustled up a pint bottle of spirits somewhere.
I went out to the kitchen and got some ice and a pitcher of water and a glass and went upstairs. Mr. Churchill was sitting there with his robe on and I said: “Mr. Churchill, here, I thought you might need a little pick-me-up before we go over to the gymnasium.”
“Well,” he said. “General, am I glad to see you. I didn’t know whether I was in Fulton, Missouri, or Fulton, Sahara.”
Whatever libations Churchill consumed prior to his speech, it must have been precisely the right amount of fortification. Those in the audience were treated to one of Sir Winston’s most famous postwar oratory efforts—“The Sinews of Peace”—far better known as his “Iron Curtain” speech.
After serving the Roosevelts for many years, White House butler-bartender Alonzo Fields considered himself a pro. But early in Truman’s administration, First Lady Bess asked for two pre-dinner cocktails—specifically, Old Fashioneds.
Fields’s first effort proved too weak for Bess’s taste. So Fields, his pride slightly dented, dug up an alternative recipe. This attempt, too, fell short of the mark—apparently, a bit too fruity.
With a flash of frustration, Fields put two generous pours of bourbon over ice into bar glass tumblers and added a few bitters.
This strong-on-the-bourbon, light-on-everything-else approach did the trick—and Alonzo Fields fielded compliments from the president and the first lady on his creation.
No political history of the 1950s would be complete without mention of the anti-Communist zealot Joe McCarthy, a Republican senator from Wisconsin. It was Truman’s misfortune that his second term coincided with McCarthy’s brief rise to power.
Truman’s controversial removal of General MacArthur from command brought out McCarthy’s fangs, and he ripped the president in a speech. McCarthy labeled MacArthur’s removal as a “Communist victory won with the aid of bourbon and Benedictine”—an accusation that Truman drank too much.
Truman was not amused and (in a letter to Russ Stewart, the Chicago Sun-Times general manager) responded curtly: “I appreciate very much your thoughtfulness in forwarding me Bill Kent’s story on McCarthy’s cockeyed statement. I think he will be extremely sorry about that statement before this show is entirely over.”
Senator McCarthy continued to be a political abscess for Eisenhower, as well, but Ike ignored the controversial anti-Communist crusader. Eisenhower once noted (in regards to McCarthy) that he had no intentions of “getting in a pissing contest with a skunk.”
The hypocrisy of McCarthy accusing Truman (a moderate, if consistent, drinker) is that there was strong evidence that it was the senator who had serious alcohol problems. McCarthy died in 1957 in Bethesda, Maryland, at just forty-eight years of age. The official cause was acute hepatitis, but most speculate that cirrhosis of the liver brought on the hepatitis.
On a visit to New York City, then–former president Truman ducked into the barroom—Bemelmans—at the Carlyle Hotel. Irish-born bartender Tommy Rowles was serving exactly his fourth customer of what was to be a fifty-plus-year career at that fine establishment. Nevertheless, he knew who Truman was.
“I’ll tell you what he drank if you don’t ask what time of day it was,” Rowles joked with a New York Times writer in a 2012 article about the celebrated barman’s retirement.
Truman ordered an Old Grand-Dad on the rocks; no big surprise. But the former leader of the free world also asked Rowles if the young publican was allowed to join him.
“I told him I could drink, but I could never drink an Old Grand-Dad,” remembered Rowles. Whereupon Truman asked the Irishman to look outside and report what he saw—a noisy gaggle of reporters and photographers, Rowles observed.
Then Truman smiled and said: “Yes, and if you had to walk 15 blocks with these guys following you, you’d drink this, too.”