U.S. At War: The Canterbury Hand

Physically and mentally, Harry Tru man was prepared for the exciting days of last week. His return trip from Potsdam — including 125 pleasant hours on the Atlantic — had been relaxing and restful.

Before he lost his sea legs, many stories about the voyage of the cruiser Augusta had been told around Washington.

Wearing informal clothes and his mouse-grey fedora, Harry Truman strolled the decks, arm in arm with Jimmy Byrnes or Admiral Bill Leahy. At other times, he and Speechwriter Sam Rosenman lounged in the President’s stateroom or sat on the open deck; there they wrote and rewrote the President’s report to the nation.

One afternoon, Harry Truman attended a ship’s smoker, intently following the Navy boxers. When the portable ring collapsed and a post struck Bosun’s Mate H. W. Beemans, the President scurried below deck to sick bay, checked the sailor’s injuries and stayed for a short chat.

He seemed interested in everything the ship’s crew did. Standing at the rail one sunny morning, he watched the ship’s company solve a battle problem, intrigued by the smoke bombs. He told the enlisted men first about the atomic bomb—casually, as if chatting with old old friends, at chow.

Time & again he summoned reporters to his quarters. Each time, they ran and lurched through the passageways, expecting a formal press conference, only to find the President wanting nothing more than a few hours of his favorite pastime—poker and liquid refreshment.

The President’s luck was good. He often scooped in the chips when nobody called his raise. Whenever anybody won on an uncalled hand, the President invariably smiled and referred to it as “an Archbishop of Canterbury hand.” He used the phrase often, but he would not explain it.

After the last shipboard game, he told a story. Two Londoners, he said, had been arguing about a passing cleric. Said one: “I say he’s the Archbishop of Canterbury. I can see his gaiters.” Said the other: “He’s not.” To settle a bet, the passerby was hailed, asked his identity. Staring stonily over his high collar, the cleric replied : “It’s none of your damned business who I am.” So, the President grinned, they never knew—just like the suckers who do not call a poker hand.