Target Churchill (20 page)

“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.

“Branch water?”

“Any clear water that contains liquor,” Truman said. “A Southern expression.” He bent closer to Churchill. “Most of us here are bourbon drinkers. I hope some smart fellow did his research and discovered your preferences,” Truman said.

By observing him at Potsdam, he knew that Churchill had a predilection for Johnny Walker Black scotch whiskey and Pol Roger champagne, both of which Churchill imbibed in what appeared to be large quantities. He hoped the train was stocked accordingly.

At that moment, the train slowed and stopped. General Vaughn bent and whispered something in Truman's ear. They had stopped at the Silver Spring station, a few minutes ride from Union Station.

“A crisis, Winston,” Truman said, smiling. “We've had to send someone to the liquor store to get your favorite brew. Sorry about this.”

“A crisis indeed, Harry,” replied Churchill.

He leaned toward Truman, as if to stress the confidential nature of the impending remark.

“My wife's family is from Scotland, and she made the beverage mandatory before we were married. ‘Winston, she said, scotch is the mother's milk of Scotland.' Long ago, I surrendered to her wisdom. While I have no Scottish blood, I was born on St. Andrew's Eve, and he's the patron saint of Scotland. Besides, I once represented Dundee, a Scottish constituency, for years, and of course, I married Clemmie, a Scottish lassie. And, I note with some pride, that many with Scottish names have been president. Monroe, Jackson, Polk, Buchanan, Hayes, and McKinley.”

As a student of American history, Truman was impressed and said so.

“I am particularly fond of Polk,” Churchill said.

To Truman, this was yet another subtle barrage. Truman's admiration for Polk was well known. Churchill was demonstrating his gift for ingratiation. So he was right on target, and Truman succumbed gladly.

“So am I, Winston. He is the most underrated of our presidents. After Washington and Jackson, I'd put him at number three.”

“Ahead of Franklin?”

“History might judge otherwise,” Truman said quickly, knowing of Churchill's special affection for Roosevelt.

He was instantly sorry he had graded his preferences, but felt it necessary to embellish his point about Polk.

“He was no orator like you, Winston, or Roosevelt, but he was a man of action not words. He served only one term. He said in his inaugural speech exactly what he intended to do. Actually, it was one of the shortest on record. He proposed four things and, by God, he did them: annex Texas, abolish the national bank, lower the tariff, and then settle the Oregon boundary dispute with you people. He beat the Mexicans for California and got you to give up Oregon under threat of war. He was one tough SOB.”

Relating it to present circumstances, Truman sensed that the reference to Polk was Churchill's way of plumping for more aggressive action when it came to the Russians. Truman preferred to steer the conversation in another direction.

The train began to move again, and Churchill was presented with his drink, from which he took a deep sip.

“Once again the Americans have come to the rescue,” Churchill said.

Everyone laughed.

“We are on a very historic route, Winston,” Truman said. “It's the very same track that carried another president to his final resting place, Springfield, Illinois.”

“Lincoln,” Churchill said. “He wrote the finest speech ever written.”

“Wrote it himself,” Truman said. “Takes two talents, writing and speaking—like you, Winston. I'm afraid I'm somewhat lacking in both departments.”

He instantly regretted the comment, remembering that Bess had always said he was too self-effacing, accusing him of keeping the light of his candle hidden under a bushel. He chuckled at the memory of his mother-in-law who thought her daughter married beneath her.

Churchill closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded.

“A house divided against itself cannot stand,” he intoned. “Could be a metaphor for today.”

Truman was confused by the comment but let it pass. Churchill was an encyclopedia of quotations.

The waiter came with refills for their now-empty glasses. Churchill raised his.

“To victory,” Churchill intoned.

“Victory?” Truman said, perplexed. “I thought we already won.”

“Not that victory, Harry,” Churchill said. “I'm talking about the current engagement. I don't believe it can be described as the end. It is not even the beginning of the end, but it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

Truman clearly understood the reference.

“I guess we Americans are by nature more optimistic, Winston,” Truman said.

They drank. Truman offered no response, nor did he have any doubts about what Churchill had meant.

Navy bean soup, Truman's favorite, followed by ham and cheese sandwiches, was served at lunch.

During the course of the lunch, Truman described the small Westminster College in glowing terms, describing it as “a jewel of place, small but prestigious.” His research on the former prime minister had revealed that one of Churchill's favorite American movies was
Kings Row.

“Did you know, Winston, that the author of the book
Kings Row
, Henry Bellamann, was a graduate of Westminster?”

“Was he? I must confess I have seen that movie a number of times. I thoroughly enjoyed it at each viewing.”

“He had called Westminster ‘Aberdeen College,' and used Fulton as his model.”

“Interesting,” Churchill mused. “I remember that scene in which the character woke up to discover he had lost his legs. What was the name of that actor?”

“Reagan, I think,” Vaughn said. “I forget his first name.”

During dinner, Churchill continued to push his case against the Russians and steered the conversation to the atomic bomb.

“How are we ever going to prevent others from getting it?” Churchill had asked.

“We can't,” Truman admitted. “We might keep the lid on it for a few years, but sooner or later, some country will obtain it, by hook or by crook.”

“And what of the Soviets?” Churchill asked.

“Five years, at best… or worst. It's out of the box, Winston. There's no stopping it. But we've certainly got to postpone the inevitable as long as we can. If the war had dragged on and Roosevelt was alive, it might have happened sooner. Hell, he might have given it to them.”

Truman was certain that Churchill caught the implication of his remark, the allegation that Roosevelt was alleged to have wanted to share atomic secrets with good old Uncle Joe.

“You said by hook or by crook, Harry,” Churchill said, picking up on the nuance. “It is not the hook to be feared, Harry, rather the crook.”

“I agree. Our people have told me that we are inundated with Soviet spies and sympathizers. Our country leaks like a sieve, Winston. My number-one priority is to beef up our intelligence services. During the war, they were directed against the Germans; the Soviets were given a pass. No more.”

“I'm afraid we are in the same boat,” Churchill sighed. “When it comes to spying and enlisting cohorts, the Russians are masters. They have burrowed in for the long haul. And speaking of weapons of destruction, the Germans created the most horrendous weapon of all. They transported Lenin in a sealed railroad car to Russia like a plague bacteria. This one act has created a worldwide epidemic.”

“That's a pretty grim assessment, Winston.”

“I know. My spiritual mother must have been Cassandra.”

Truman listened patiently to what amounted to Churchill's continuing brief against the Russians. It was a steady drumbeat and went on until mid-afternoon while the train sped along the tracks.

“You make it sound as if any productive relations with the Russians are hopeless, Winston,” Truman said.

Despite his resistance, Churchill's argument had made an impact on him.

“One would think it would be to Stalin's advantage to maintain good relations with us at this moment. His country is devastated. Hell, we can help him get his country back on its feet. I mean he can't just close the curtains and lock out the light.”

“Harry, trying to maintain good relations with a Communist is like wooing a crocodile. You do not know whether to tickle it under the chin or beat it over the head. When it opens its mouth, you cannot tell whether it is trying to smile or preparing to eat you up.”

“You're not going with that one in Fulton are you, Winston?” Truman asked, suddenly uncomfortable with his aggressive attitude. “Pretty strong stuff. I'm not saying there might not be truth in it, but it seems a bit over the top at this moment in time.”

“Rest assured, Harry,” Churchill said. “I hope to be more artful.”

“I'm sure you will be, Winston,” Truman said, not entirely relieved. “I prefer to be more optimistic. I know, I know, you Brits think your old colonials are naïve and given to rosy scenarios. Frankly, Winston, I think you should be more positive. Hell, we have the United Nations organization now. It may be a crude setup, but at least, we all can talk to each other.”

“Talk?” Churchill chuckled. “The cacophony will be fearsome.”

“Better to talk than shoot, Winston. What do you see down the road for the UN?”