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1948 THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

 

The press and the polls agreed: Harry Truman was certain to lose. But instead of giving up, the president decided to “give ’em hell.”

by Michael D. Haydock

 

FEW PEOPLE BELIEVED that President Harry S. Truman had a chance of winning the 1948 presidential election. The three great national polling organizations all predicted that Governor Thomas E. Dewey of New York, his Republican opponent, would win by a wide margin. The press was equally certain of a Dewey victory, for the odds against the incumbent seemed insurmountable. Truman’s own party had split, with Democrat Strom Thurmond running in the South as a “Dixiecrat” and former vice president Henry Wallace running as the candidate of the newly formed Progressive Party. It was expected that Wallace would drain vitally needed liberal votes away from the president. Among Democratic politicians and his own campaign staff, it seemed that the only person who thought Truman could win was the candidate himself.

Of course, there were many who wondered how Harry Truman had ever made it into the White House in the first place. The son of a Missouri mule-trader-turned-farmer, Truman differed markedly from his predecessor, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Truman, who had served as a captain of artillery in World War I, was a failed businessman whose haberdashery in Kansas City had closed during a recession in 1922. While overseas, however, Truman had met Jim Pendergast, whose family was a Democratic political dynasty in Kansas City. With the support of less-than-reputable political boss Tom Pendergast, Truman was elected eastern judge of Jackson County and then, in 1934, United States Senator. Though Truman himself was a person of impeccable personal honesty and political integrity, many in Washington looked down on him as “the Senator from Pendergast.” Only during his second term in the Senate, when he headed a committee investigating the national defense program, did he gain a reputation for hard work and diligence and the respect of his fellow senators.

In 1944, Franklin Roosevelt picked Truman as his running mate to replace Vice President Henry Wallace, whose extreme liberal views were far out of alignment which those of Democratic party leaders. When Roosevelt died on April 12, 1945, Truman became president. It was not a job he had ever aspired to, and he confided to his diary and in letters to his family his doubts about his abilities.

By 1948, however, Harry Truman had grown with the job and was determined to seek a full term in his own right. He also sought vindication for the rebuff his party had suffered at the polls in the 1946 congressional elections, when the Republicans gained an overwhelming majority in both the House and the Senate.

The Republicans had selected Truman’s opponent, Thomas Dewey, in June on the third ballot at their convention at Philadelphia’s Convention Hall. For his running mate, Dewey picked California governor Earl Warren. Roosevelt had defeated Dewey in 1944, but Truman’s hopes looked slim. “Barring a political miracle, it was the kind of ticket that could not fail to sweep the Republican Party back into power,” Time magazine proclaimed.

The Democratic convention opened on July 12 in the same Philadelphia hall the Republicans had used, but the mood in the building had darkened. The decorative flags and bunting had not been changed and now looked bedraggled and shop-worn. The Associated Press noted that “The Democrats act as though they have accepted an invitation to a funeral.” Until a few days before the convention there had been an active movement to deny the nomination to Truman. A diverse group of party leaders, headed by James Roosevelt, son of the former president, had pushed hard for General Dwight Eisenhower. The Eisenhower boom ended only when the general stated unequivocally that he would not accept the nomination if it was offered.

The Democrats were further fractured when a coalition of liberals led by Hubert Humphrey of Minnesota inserted a strong civil rights plank, modeled after Truman’s own proposals to Congress, in the platform. Delegates from the conservative South, intent on maintaining segregation there, were adamantly opposed to the plank. Before the nominating process even began, Alabama’s Handy Ellis announced that his state’s presidential electors were “never to cast a vote for Harry Truman, and never to cast their vote for any candidate with a civil rights program such as adopted by the convention.” Half of the Alabama delegation and the entire Mississippi contingent walked out. Two days later, disaffected southern Democrats met in Birmingham, Alabama, to nominate Governor Strom Thurmond of South Carolina for president. The new party officially called itself the States’ Rights Democrats; the press dubbed them “Dixiecrats,” and the name stuck. The “Solid South”–a traditional Democratic stronghold–seemed lost to Truman. Meanwhile, on July 27, the Progressive Party nominated Henry Wallace for president.

Truman, who picked Senator Alben Barkley of Kentucky as his running mate, was undeterred by the defections from his party. For his convention acceptance speech, the president used only an outline written in short, punchy sentences. He electrified the audience when he said, “Senator Barkley and I will win this election and make the Republicans like it–don’t you forget it.” It was the first time during the convention that anyone had spoken of actually winning. Truman then praised the higher wages, higher farm income, and greater benefits for Americans he claimed as Democratic accomplishments, and went on to condemn the Republican Congress. He spoke with scorn of the recently adopted Republican platform, contrasting the programs it contained with congressional inaction on similar programs he had proposed.

Truman roused the convention to a standing ovation when he announced his intention to call Congress back into special session to “ask them to pass the laws to halt rising prices, to meet the housing crisis–which they say they are for in their platform.” When this special session did convene it accomplished little, as Truman expected, but it gave the president a campaign issue. The country’s woes, he asserted, were the result of the “do-nothing” Republican Congress.

 

Truman expected to run on issues. He had already begun running for reelection when he gave his State of the Union speech on January 7, 1948, and continued with a cross-country trip a month before the Democratic convention. Officially, he made the journey to accept an honorary degree from the University of California. Though he normally flew, this time Truman went by train, which allowed him to pass through 18 states, speaking from the back platform at stops along the way.

Truman traveled in a special car, the Ferdinand Magellan, originally designed for President Roosevelt. It contained sleeping quarters, a galley and dining room, bath, and a walnut-paneled sitting room. Armor-plated and equipped with a special speaker system for addressing crowds, the Magellan would be Truman’s traveling office throughout the campaign. The train also included a dining car converted into an office for staff, a special car for the Signal Corps to keep the president in touch with Washington, and another car for the press.

By the time Truman returned to Washington from this “nonpolitical” trip, he had covered 9,504 miles and made 73 speeches at stops in small towns and cities, in which he hammered away at “the do-nothing Congress.” When Republican Senator Robert Taft complained in a speech about the spectacle of a president maligning Congress at every “whistle-stop” around the country, the Democratic campaign staff pounced on the remark. They telegraphed leaders in 35 communities in which the president had spoken and asked if they agreed with the Senator’s demeaning characterization of their towns. The response of the head of the Chamber of Commerce in Laramie, Wyoming, was typical: “Characteristically, Senator Taft is confused.” A new term, “whistle-stop tour,” entered the American political lexicon.

In contrast, Dewey decided he should take a low-key approach and emphasize his own broad program statements rather than attack his opponent. He had reason to believe he could simply march down the high road into the White House. A Gallup poll published in early August gave the New York governor 48 percent of the vote, with only 37 percent going to Truman, and just 5 percent to Wallace. A few days later, a Roper poll estimated Truman’s support at just 31.5 percent.

The science of opinion polling was still in its infancy, but already the public and political leaders had come to rely on it. Pioneered by George Gallup, the polls used “quota sampling”–the selection of a small, diverse group of people representing the entire public–to draw broad conclusions. In the 1934 congressional elections, Gallup’s predictions were within one percentage point of the actual totals. In 1936, he accurately predicted the outcome of the Roosevelt-Landon race, and by 1940, 118 newspapers were carrying Gallup’s syndicated column, “America Speaks.” People had faith in the accuracy of his predictions and those of his two chief rivals, the Roper and the Crosley polls, which used similar methods. Meanwhile, older, less scientific gauges also favored Dewey: professional gamblers in the country were offering odds of up to 30 to 1 against a Truman victory.

On the morning of September 17, Truman boarded the Ferdinand Magellan for his first major tour of the campaign. Vice presidential candidate Barkley exhorted him to “Mow ’em down, Harry!” Truman responded, “I’m going to give ’em hell.” The tour took him cross-country to California, back through the Midwest and Northeast, and finally to his home in Missouri.

At his first major stop, at the National Plowing Contest in Dexter, Iowa, the president delivered a hard, clear message. “This Republican Congress has already stuck a pitchfork in the farmer’s back,” he said. He pointed out that Congressional inaction in appropriating the funds for the construction of grain storage bins had forced many farmers to sell their crops at a loss, for prices below government minimums. “I’m not asking you to vote for me,” Truman concluded. “Vote for your farms! Vote for the standard of living you have won under the Democratic administration.”

Truman continued to attack the Republicans on the farm issue, among others, throughout the tour. The press noted that, while his audiences were large, they did not seem particularly enthusiastic. The reporters attributed the crowds to a natural curiosity, and reasoned that people wanted to see the president but were not necessarily interested in supporting him.

The press complained of the arrangements they had to endure on the Truman train. Their press car had no speaker system, so reporters had to scramble out into the crowd to hear what Truman was saying. Then they had to hustle back on board before the train pulled out. Because the president spoke from outline notes, the reporters did not always receive copies of Truman’s speeches ahead of time. The same apparently slip-shod manner applied to the correspondents’ living arrangements. They had no laundry facilities and, when the train made an overnight stop, the reporters had to find their own hotel accommodations.

There were no such complaints about the Dewey “Victory Special,” which pulled out of Albany, New York, on September 19. There were more than 90 reporters aboard–more than double the number that accompanied the president–and they usually received copies of the candidate’s speeches a day in advance. The press car and both dining cars had loudspeakers, so writers did not even have to leave the train to hear Dewey speak. Campaign staff picked up and returned their laundry and arranged their hotel accommodations.

 

It was not just the mundane details of life aboard the Truman train that seemed disorganized. Funding was also a problem, with few people willing to contribute to what seemed a doomed campaign. The Truman tour came close to ending in Oklahoma City on September 28 when the railroad refused to move Truman’s train out of the yards until overdue charges were paid. Only a hasty fund-raising campaign initiated by Oklahoma Governor Roy Turner allowed the president to roll on.

Although a second, lengthy tour was planned for late October, Truman rested for only four days after returning to Washington before setting off on a series of short train journeys. On October 6 he began a three-day swing through the mid-Atlantic states, continuing to hammer the Republican-controlled Congress. The crowds were large; on the ride from Albany to Buffalo, between 5,000 and 10,000 people showed up at every stop. Invariably someone would shout, “Give ’em hell, Harry,” and Truman would. The polls, and the reporters, continued to dismiss the crowds as gatherings of the naturally curious.

During a second short trip through the upper Midwest, Truman gave his aide George Elsey a state-by-state run-down of the electoral votes he expected to win. Truman predicted that he would get 340 to Dewey’s 108. He conceded that Thurmond would probably take 42 and that 37 were in doubt. Elsey had doubts as well–of the entire prediction–but he didn’t tell the president.

Truman began his final swing through the country on October 24, still considered a certain loser. During this second tour, Newsweek published the election opinions of 50 highly respected political reporters. All 50 predicted Truman would lose. Truman looked at the magazine and said, “I know every one of these 50 fellows. There isn’t one of them has enough sense to pound sand in a rat hole.” Truman sensed what others could not–that the average voter was listening to him and believing in his message.

Still, many politicians avoided associating themselves with the Truman campaign for fear of damaging their own political futures. Frank J. Lausche, the Democratic candidate for governor in Ohio, was one. Lausche didn’t want to jeopardize his bi-partisan support by appearing on the campaign train as it passed through Ohio. Only with great reluctance did he eventually agree to get on board and ride a few miles to Dayton with the president. He was adamant that he would leave the train after that short ride.

What Lausche saw amazed him. There were 7,000 people at the first small-town stop. The crowd in Dayton spilled out of the station, blocking traffic in the streets. “Is this the way the crowds have always been?” he asked the president. “Yes, but this is smaller than we’ve had in most states,” Truman responded. Lausche stayed on the Truman train all the way to Akron.

Toward the end of the campaign, some of the reporters on the Truman train began to sense the changing political winds, noting a particularly large crowd or noisy ovation as the President “gave ’em hell.” While most maintained that Dewey would win big, a few began to cautiously hedge on their earlier predictions. Dewey himself even began to have a few doubts. With just two weeks left in the campaign, a Gallup poll showed that his lead was down to six points. On Dewey’s instruction, his staff contacted 90 of the 96 Republican committee members around the country to ask their opinion on whether he should change his tactics. All but one counseled the governor that he was sure to win if he continued the type of campaign he had been running.

When the final campaign swings ended, both candidates predicted victory to the press. No one believed Truman’s prediction. The Gallup poll now had Dewey winning 49.5 percent of the vote to Truman’s 44.5. The New York Times predicted that Dewey would take 29 states with a total of 345 electoral votes, to Truman’s 11 states and 105 electoral votes. Strom Thurmond, it was expected, would carry four southern states. Elmo Roper had stopped taking polls in early September, based on his absolute confidence that Dewey would win and that further polling was unnecessary.

Not even Truman’s closest associates shared the president’s confidence. Clark Clifford, who had mapped most of the Truman campaign strategy, thought that Truman was gaining and might have been able to pull off a victory if the campaign had been a week or two longer.

On election eve, Truman spoke to the nation by radio from his home in Independence. “From the bottom of my heart I thank the people of the United States for their cordiality to me and their interest in the affairs of this great nation and of the world,” he said. “I trust the people, because when they know the facts, they do the right thing.”

 

On election day, Thomas Dewey and his wife voted in a school on East 51st. Street in New York City. A nearby skyscraper was festooned with a sign that read, “Good luck, Mr. President.” When he emerged from the booth, Dewey said, “Well, I know of two votes we got anyway.”

Harry Truman, with wife Bess and daughter Margaret, voted at 10:00 A.M. in Independence. They posed for photographers and when asked about his chances, Truman responded, “It can’t be anything but a victory.” He said that he would probably go to bed early rather than sitting up and listening to the results. He did exactly that. As reporters and cameramen conducted a sort of “death watch” around his house awaiting a statement from Truman conceding defeat, however, the president slipped away with a Secret Service detail and drove to the Elms Hotel in Excelsior Springs. After a ham sandwich and glass of milk, Truman retired early.

Walter Cronkite was among that group of surprised press representatives who did not find out until the next morning that the president hadn’t been there. Cronkite later recalled, “after we had become good friends, the president’s daughter, Margaret Truman, who was home that night, denied that the family had indulged in any such gambit, but I thought her denial was a little tentative.”

President Truman was awakened at midnight and told that he was 1.2 million votes ahead but that a Dewey victory was still predicted. At 4:00 A.M. he was awakened again and told that his lead in the popular vote was now 2 million. The commentator was still predicting his defeat. Truman rose, dressed, and hurried to Kansas City, knowing that his own prediction was coming true. Meanwhile, in New York City, Dewey’s campaign manager was telling a large press contingent, “We’re in there fighting. The returns are still coming in but it looks as if we won’t know until morning.”

When morning came, the results were clear. Thomas Dewey had polled 21,991,291 votes, while Truman had received 24,179,345. Henry Wallace had cost Truman the electoral votes of New York, and Thurmond had taken Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, and South Carolina, but the president had prevailed in the farm states of Iowa, Wisconsin, and Ohio, all of which had gone for Dewey in 1944. The Wallace vote in California was far below predictions, and the President carried that state as well. In all, Truman gathered 303 electoral votes. Dewey came up with 189 and Thurmond earned a total of 39 from the four states he carried and a single, renegade elector from Tennessee who refused to cast his ballot for Truman. After traveling 21,928 miles and making a total of 275 speeches, Harry Truman had engineered the most stunning upset victory in presidential election history.

At 11:14 on the morning after election day, Thomas Dewey–the man every pollster, pundit, and politician in the country had believed was destined to the next president–wired Harry Truman: “My heartiest congratulations to you on your election and every good wish for a successful administration.”

Soon after the election, several newspapers dropped George Gallup’s services. He and the other pollsters promised to determine how they could have been so wrong. They soon discovered that they had stopped polling far too early. Many voters had remained undecided until the very end–then they had cast their votes for the incumbent. After the 1948 race, pollsters adjusted their methods so that the people sampled were even more representative, and they continued to take polls right up to election day.

The press was mortified by its failure. Richard Strout, in the New Republic, described the election as a “personal humiliation,” but added that it “gave a glowing and wonderful sense that the American people can’t be ticketed by polls, know their own mind, and picked the rather unlikely but courageous figure of Truman to carry on its banner.”

The president was willing to be magnanimous in victory. The day after his stunning win, the president received a telegram from the Washington Post inviting him to attend a banquet at which the entire Post staff, dressed in sackcloth and ashes, would “eat crow,” while the President, attired in white tie, would be served turkey. Truman wrote that, instead, “We should all get together now and make a country in which everybody can eat turkey whenever he pleases.”

 


 

Michael D. Haydock is a freelance writer from Poughkeepsie, New York. His article about the sinking of the battleship Maine appeared in the February 1998 issue of American History.