The Old Stiffs

A few wives went along, but most of them just left their husbands at Kansas City's Union Station in the care of Monsignor Curtis Tiernan. Some of the ladies felt a little trepidation. Pug-nosed, cheerful Monsignor Tiernan, the boys' old World War I chaplain, had never been a stern watchdog and he didn't look like one. His charges--staid-looking Midwest businessmen--were kicking up a mild and happy uproar when the train pulled out. They were the boys of Harry Truman's old Battery D, 129th Field Artillery, A.E.F., on their way to Washington for the big show.

As Many as Can Walk. Captain Harry had said that he wanted as many of them "as can walk" to be his official escort at the inauguration. He wouldn't be able to march along with them. "I'll be wearing a high silk hat and a long-tailed coat," he said, "and I'm not going to march along in that rig."

So 73 of the 138 living members of Battery D had taken off. Tommy Murphy was there, jaunty and sharp in a double-breasted grey suit. Eugene Donnelly wore a silk hat. Frank Spina, Harry Truman's Kansas City barber, had a new silk guidon, three times regulation size, inscribed in gold with the names of the places where Battery D had fought: the Vosges Mountains, the Meuse-Argonne, Verdun. Four sleeping cars rolled eastward.

Some of the boys started shooting craps in the washroom of car K2. The serious drinking went on in car K3. The boys had their wives' expectations and their reputation to live up to: after all, they had bragged as the years rolled by that they were the hell-raisingest outfit in the A.E.F. But after an hour or so the four sleeping cars became noisy with comfortable snores.

The Dizzy D. Jaunty Tommy Murphy, as much as anyone, was a typical man from old Battery D. Tommy, a sergeant in the outfit, was from Kansas City's East Side. As a kid he had gone into the fight game and become king of the amateur lightweights. He was out in Seattle in 1917, when the boys back home wrote him that they were trying to form an all-Catholic battery in the 129th Field Artillery. Tommy hurried home to join. That was the beginning of the wild outfit which earned the early nickname of the "Dizzy D."

They trained at Fort Sill. A chaplain--not Father Tiernan--undertook to give them a lecture on clean living. A rugged man, the chaplain stepped into a ring one night to make his point. He called for challengers. The boys of Battery D shoved Tommy Murphy into the ring. The chaplain held his finger in front of his own nose. "You try to hit it, son," he said. "I'll just show you what clean living and coordination do for you." With studied innocence, Tommy made a wild swing which the well coordinated chaplain easily ducked. "See?" said the chaplain. "Try again." Tommy almost turned himself inside out, missing with another swing. "Try once more," said the chaplain patronizingly. So Tommy let him have that one.

In June 1918, leaving a long line of black eyes, broken noses and split lips behind, scrappy Battery D landed at Tilbury Docks on the Thames. Then it was shipped to Le Havre, and ten minutes after it arrived was in a fight with British Tommies. At Coetquidan, the Battery settled down to learning how to fire French 75s. It had already worn out three captains. It was at Coetquidan that a fourth came along. His name: Harry S. Truman.

"You Nasty Things." Battery D eyed bespectacled Captain Truman with disfavor and suspicion. He was a Baptist and a Mason. "We thought he was a bit prissy," Tommy Murphy recalled. A story, probably apocryphal, but which Battery D still tells and snickers over, was that one day Captain Truman shrilled at two AWOLs: "You spoiled our record, you nasty things."

But Battery D began to give him grudging respect. He was fair. He claimed no special privileges and showed no favors. Then one black night, on a bald knoll in the Vosges--as the boys told it--Battery D fired the first salvo of the war for the green 35th Division. Promptly a German battery answered back. A Battery D sergeant yelled: "They got us bracketed. Every man for himself." Panic seized the Battery. Over the din came the voice of Battery D's prissy captain: "I'm gonna shoot the first son-of-a-bitch who leaves his gun." Battery D's artillerymen stuck to their guns.

Three men were hurt, five horses killed in the incident. Getting down off the knoll when they were ordered to retire, they almost lost their captain. Shrapnel killed Captain Truman's horse, which rolled over, pinning him underneath. Lieutenant Victor Housholder lifted up enough of the dead horse so that the boys could drag out their breathless captain.

A scrappy, finally seasoned outfit, they fought on in France. When the war ended they collected $400 for a solid-silver loving cup, which they admiringly presented to Harry Truman. Most of them went back to Kansas City and the country's Main Streets, finally to become middle-aged heroes of the best-known battery in the A.E.F. Tommy Murphy started raising a family of seven children and ended up as a paint salesman.

"This Grand Old U.S.A." Daylight came in the windows of the four Pullmans. The train joggled on. The boys poured each other some eye-openers and the stories began again and grew more wonderful.

Somewhere near Cincinnati, they held a business meeting. Morris Riley, in charge of arrangements, explained that they didn't need to worry about formal clothes. Morris said: "Captain Truman told us that we could go anywhere so long as we wore shoes." They practiced a parody of Tipperary to sing to Captain Truman: "Up from Jackson County came a county judge one day. He worked into the White House of this grand old U.S.A "

On Wednesday morning, nursing a few hangovers--but only a few--the veterans of Battery D pulled into Washington. With canes and Battery D armbands, they went peacefully off to Monsignor Tiernan's Mass at St. Matthew's Church, said in memory of 70-odd comrades who had died in France or since. Said one veteran: "In the old days we used to land somewhere, get in a fight first and then we'd go to Mass. We're getting old."

That afternoon they got their first look at their old commander at a reception in the ballroom of the Shoreham Hotel. Other people clapped politely. The aging cutups of Battery D let out a roar.

Orders from the Captain. The big events came next day. Harry Truman had told them to be at the Mayflower Hotel by 7 "and not at 7:10 or 7:15." Captain Harry was twelve minutes early. "Everyone here?" he snapped. "Where's the cook? Let's have breakfast." Grinning, a little selfconscious, they all sat down. Someone started to call him "Mr. President." Harry Truman commanded: "With this outfit I'm the captain, and that's an order."

They ate Missouri ham and hominy grits and sang the parody of Tipperary. They got Harry Truman's autograph on menus and dollar bills. There was a great deal of joking and ribbing. Eugene Donnelly, the battery wit, announced to the President: "Now Battery D is going to give you something about as worthless as a Republican County chairman." Donnelly brought forth a package and began to unwrap it. Someone yelled: "Don't break it, you clumsy bastard." Donnelly finally pulled out a gold-headed cane which he presented to the President, who said emotionally that he would use it every morning on his walks and pass it on to his daughter. He added: "Perhaps some day she can give it to my grandson."

The captain closed the breakfast with a final order: "After 1 o'clock, or about 25 minutes thereafter, I don't give a damn what you do, but I want you to stay sober until then."

One Whoop Left. Almost two hours before the President showed up to take the oath of office, the men of Battery D were in their seats in the stands. They rose as one man and yelled when Harry Truman appeared. Later, they took their positions in two long lines on either side of his car--sedate-looking fellows, carrying canes--and walked beside the car down Capitol Hill. It was a brisk, 46-minute walk and everyone made it except George Hardy, who got a stitch in his side, and "Deadman" Riley, who just got tired. The others all felt fine, although afterwards they began to stiffen up a bit, sitting around in the chill breeze.

That night they went to the Inaugural Ball; but most left long before the ball was over.

Doggedly, next day they went sightseeing. That night they trooped into the Shoreham for the reception given by Senator Howard J. McGrath. They had one more whoop left; that was for the President when he marched in.

They listened attentively to his speech. They grinned proudly when he closed his remarks by fondly saying goodbye to "those old stiffs who marched with me yesterday and who marched with me all over France." The old stiffs marched wearily outside to their buses, rolled back to their hotels, picked up their bags, and joggled across town to Union Station. The heroes of 30 years ago climbed aboard the train for Kansas City. In no time at all, comfortable snores filled the four Pullmans.

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