Say, I’m just wild about Harry

And Harry’s wild about me

The fates decreed it

And we concede it

Harry made history

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Sergeant Hank Sawyer stared at his Army dog tag number. He was one of the lucky soldiers that survived the battles of World War II. He was sad at losing comrades but happy he was going home after four years of fighting. 

His only family in Madison, Iowa was two uncles.  Larry, who owned a tavern near the waterfront called the Do Duck In.  A watering hole frequented by bowlers during the week, hunters and fishermen on weekends and CB&Q railroad workers (whose locomotive shop was located up the street) every day. 

His other uncle was Michael.  A sweetcorn grower whose farm was saved from foreclosure late in the Great Depression by 16 neighbors.  Fellow farmers who bid pennies on the dollar for the farm and its’ equipment while keeping outsiders from bidding during the sale.  A practice carried on throughout the Midwest that angered bankers but gave dignity to the men who worked the land.  

Hanks teenage years were split between cleaning the bar for Uncle Larry and de-tasseling corn during harvest for Uncle Mike.  In both cases a strong work ethic was instilled.  

Hank, however, would rather use his brain instead of his back muscles. 

He honed his math skills by quickly calculating batting averages from baseball box scores from the sport pages of newspapers.  

He was an avid reader and an acute observer.  He downplayed those skills by telling his pals he was just a master of the obvious.  

It was difficult to get something past Hank. 

He was looking forward to crossing the Santa Fe Railroad Bridge over the Mississippi River into his hometown Madison. Big Muddy would be the biggest river he would see since rumbling across the Ludendorff Bridge over the Rhine River at the dramatic conclusion of the Battle of the Bulge. 

George S. Pattons’ tank corps had forced the Germans back to Bastogne, Belgium. And Hank was part of that push. He was gunner of a five man crew on a Cobra King Sherman Tank unit that led a column of foot soldiers that relieved the enemy surrounded men of the 101st Airborne Division. 

He was proud to have served under Patton and relished relating stories of the discipline doled out by “Old Blood and Guts”. This association with the 37th armored battalion earned him the moniker Hank the Tank. 

A nickname he held until the fall of 1948. 

The troop train traveled from New York to Chicago where he would switch to the Denver Zephyr that would take him to Iowa. Hank sat and talked with his Army buddy Ralph Hurst. A big man with a small mustache who hailed from Wiley, Texas.  After a quick nap he rubbed 

his tired eyes as he glanced down on the floor of the train at a newspaper discarded by deboarding soldier.  

The slogan at the top of the front page of the New York Times read…

ALL THE NEWS THAT’S                                        FIT TO PRINT

He would later learn that it was more than news that was printed on its’ pages. It would be the blueprint to his financial future. 

While reading the sports pages Hank was drawn to a preview of the upcoming Kentucky Derby.  His focus was drawn to a three year old colt named Assault. A name that reflected his experiences in his many tank battles. 

Sportswriter Edgar Allen’s’ column related how the pony had trouble both walking and trotting due to an accident he had early in life. Assault had stepped on something sharp that went straight through the front of his hoof wall. Even his trainer was worried if Assault would ever race again. Definitely the colt was a loser with no chance of winning the Run for the Roses. 

There was more to the horses story, though, and Ralph had the skinny. It seems he had a cousin in Texas who worked at Kings Ranch that stabled Assault. In a letter to Ralph he emphasized that when it came time to run Assault flew as though nothing was wrong with his hoof at all. 

In his column Allen referred to the three year old colt as “The Magnificent Cripple”. 

The stable boy knew better.  Now so did Hank. 

The Louisville Couriers’ early betting line made it 8-1 against Assault winning the Triple Crown race. No doubt due to his hurt hoof. With that insight from the newspaper coupled with Ralph’s tip he decided to place a bet. 

There was no lack of bookmakers in the Windy City. In fact most taverns had back rooms with bookies, crap tables and, of course, poker tables where five card stud was the preferred game of chance. That was also Hanks favorite game. Being quick with calculations he was consistently the winner in games played in battlefield bunkers and tents. 

Hank only had an hour layover before catching the train home. Not enough time to find a bookie in a bar. 

Instead he hailed a cab in front of Union Station. Not for a ride but to place a wager on Assault. It was common street knowledge that taxi drivers would take bets for the bookies. Wagers on wheels was pretty clever, he thought.

He yelled at the first hack who was wearing a blue cap. Headwear that signified the taxis betting window was open for business. 

After placing the wager on Assault he put the betting slip in his pocket, returned to Union Station, then climbed aboard the Zephyr to finish his long trip home. 

Beneath his seat on the train ride back to Madison was a Des Moines Register. The porter, dressed in a pressed white jacket, precisely creased trousers and black bow tie, was gathering trash. As he stooped to pick up the Register Hank glanced up at him, asked his name, and where he was from. The porter replied George Butler but he said everyone called him Buddy. He was born in Kansas City but the train was now his home. 

Buddy explained Butler was the surname his great great great grandfather was given when he was a slave. His owner was founding father Pierce Butler who was infamous for harboring vice president Aaron Burr when the vice-president went into hiding after murdering Alexander Hamilton in their famous duel. 

Buddy enjoyed telling that story. Even though he was a free man he thought of himself as a slave to the Santa Fe railroad. His master wasn’t a man but a steam machine. 

Buddy handed the newspaper to Hank then proceeded with his pickup duties. Hank skipped the news on the front page. He had had enough of reality the last four years. 

Skimming the peach colored pages of the sport section he noticed an article recounting the curveball President Harry Truman had tossed when he threw out the first pitch at a recent Washington Senators baseball game. Hank knew Harry was a poker player but hadn’t realized he had a talent for pitches. 

Trumans poker playing was legendary. In March 1946, on the night before the Cold War started in earnest, Truman sat down to a poker game with Winston Churchill. The two men were aboard Truman’s presidential train heading to Fulton, Missouri where the British Prime Minister would describe the post-war divide in Europe as the Iron Curtain. 

The poker showdown lasted well into the night.  Churchills scotch and Trumans bourbon went down as fast as the Prime Minister’s stack of poker chips. 

Hank liked that both he and Harry excelled in poker.  They had something in common.  Though they would never meet in person their lives would be intertwined in the years to come.  

Later in 1946, on the first Saturday in May, jockey Warren Mehrtens spurred Assault to a surprise victory in the 1946 Kentucky Derby.  

The next week Hank took a day trip back to Chicago to collect his cash.  His newspaper knowledge and inside tip had paid off.  He knew he was onto something profitable. 

BACK HOME AGAIN 

Uncles Larry and Mike hugged Hank as he stepped off the Zephyr at the Madison Train Depot.  He handed his duffel bag to the Red Cap but kept the newspapers tucked under his arm. 

They drove down Front Street in Larry’s two-tone scout brown and sport beige Chevrolet Fleetmaster convertible.  A car that showcased his success in the saloon business.  Hank sat atop the back seat and waved at folks flashing the peace sign. 

Arriving at the Do Drop Inn, Hank was greeted with cheers from pals and patrons at the rivers edge pub.  He felt appreciated and thankful to be back home.  

Standing proudly at the end of the bar Hank regaled his audience with stories of battle scars and gambling successes.  They continued their soirée until last call.  Hanks wallet never left his back pocket.  

The next morning Hank walked to the train depot.  It was there where the strongest coffee in the city was served at the popular Fred Harvey restaurant.

The sun was bright as it reflected off the Mississippi River. Hanks’ brain not so much. Though he never had to pay for a cocktail the night before he was now paying the price of his overconsumption. Black coffee would be his remedy. 

Hanks thoughts turned to his future in Madison.  He would continue to work for his uncles but he wanted more excitement than cocktails and corn.

His real talent was knowledge and numbers. Knowledge came from reading newspapers.   Calculations came naturally.  Especially in the world of sports. 

Hank reasoned that newspapers gathered on the train from many different cities would provide him stories a day ahead of those printed in the evening Madison Current.  This made him hours smarter than everyone else. 

He devised a plan to meet every passenger train that stopped in Madison.  He began to make arrangements with porters from each train to give him as many of the discarded newspapers that they would gather.  

The price of newspapers was usually a nickel or a dime.  To incentivize the porters he paid them a quarter for each issue they gave him.  And only him. 

In time this gathering system proved to be very profitable. 

The first porter he met that morning was Buddy Butler who was eager to help.  He passed the word to other porters who also benefited from the extra cash they earned for basically just doing their job.  

From that day forward he would meet the trains and eagerly anticipate what city his news would come from that day. 

His library quickly expanded to include the Cleveland Plain Dealer, Washington Tribune, Cincinnati Enquirer, Pittsburgh Press, Chicago Tribune, New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Denver Post and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.  

Days working on the farm were a labor of the past. Hours were now spent reading the days catch in the Harvey cafe.  He would form his wagers based on the odds of the day compared to team news, injuries and trends. 

Sadie Vandevoort, his favorite waitress, would keep his cup full in the cafe that never closed. 

The day Harvey’s opened in 1936 the manager made headlines on the front page of the Madison Current by announcing that the door to Harvey’s would never be locked.  He had led an entourage of employees and customers as they walked down Front Street then up the ramp to the car toll booth (10 cents one way, 15 cents round trip) then on to the Lincoln Bridge over the Mississippi (no charge for walkers). 

Upon reaching the middle of the span he tossed the keys to the restaurant into the water.  Harvey’s never closed. 

At night Hank bartended at the Do Drop Inn.  And every night at nine o’clock Hanks’ local bookmaker Johnny Osbourne would arrive to enjoy his gin and tonic and record Hanks’ and other patrons wagers.   Baseball, football, basketball and horse racing were his focus.  Win or lose, payday was always Monday.  

Eventually Hanks’ gambling success became legendary.  He had an edge over other gamblers in town.  By paying porters for every newspaper on their train other gamblers, including his bookie, would be shutout from the latest news until it was published the next day in the Current.  

Hanks biggest payday to date came when Washington Redskin quarterback Slingin’ Sammy Baugh sprained his ankle in practice on Friday and likely wouldn’t even travel to Comiskey Park to play the Chicago Cardinals on Sunday. 

And Hank knew it a day before everyone else did.  He bet against the Redskins who would likely lose without their star quarterback.  The Redskins lost. Hank won big.  

His nickname changed from Hank the Tank to Hank the Bank.

Over the next two years Hanks’ bankroll inflated dramatically as he enjoyed life in the boisterous river city.  

In the fall of 1948 Hanks focus turned to the world of politics.  Every day there were newspaper columns from around the country dedicated to the upcoming presidential race. 

Gangbuster New York governor Thomas E. Dewey was a lock to be the next Commander in Chief.  His opponent was likely to be President Harry Truman’s whose Cold War policy was unpopular though domestically he was solid. 

A longshot was Dixiecrat Strom Thurmond whose goal was to influence civil rights policies in the platforms of each party. 

Dewey ran a conservative campaign compared to Truman’s, whose calculated and fiery rhetoric gained support from farmers and labor unions.  Especially in the Midwest.  

Hank liked Truman’s whistlestop strategy of seeing citizens around the country.  He imagined that Truman’s poker skills, the ability to read people and act accordingly, would also prove invaluable in winning the vote. 

Still, Dewey was predicted to be the man to beat.  So much so that he was a huge 17-1 favorite to win the presidency on November 2. 

One morning over coffee at Harvey’s he mused to Sadie that he was thinking of growing a mustache.  He wanted to look like screen star David Niven who had a pencil thin mustache.  

Sadie scowled, shook her head then warned him not to.  She related that she, along with most women she knew, did not trust mustached men.  

Hank smiled as he returned to reading the New York Times.  Featured above the fold on the front page that day was a photograph of Governor Dewey.  

A man whose beady-eyed face featured a bushy black mustache.  

It dawned on him that if Sadie was right maybe Dewey wasn’t the overwhelming favorite to become president as all the pundits had predicted. Especially since women accounted for half the American voting population. 

To confirm this theory he began to ask women at Harvey’s who they trusted more. Dewey or Truman?  

Hank then expanded his research by asking women around Madison their voting preferences.  Whether at the soda fountain at Witte’s Pharmacy, the basement of Sears Department Store or the produce aisle in the A&P Grocers the ladies responses were consistent.  

They overwhelmingly preferred clean shaven Truman over Dewey.  

From that time on Hank continued his research every chance he got.  Trips to other cities, from Chanute to Chicago, reaffirmed the incredible mustache theory. 

At nine o’clock in the evening on November 1, 1948 Johnny Osbourne strolled into the Do Drop Inn.  Hank approached him as the bookie sipped his gin and tonic while sitting on his usual stool at the far end of the bar.  

Suddenly Johnny spit out his drink when Hank announced he was betting $10,000 on Truman to win the presidential election.  

Hanks risky wager would be the biggest bet Johnny had ever taken.  What’s more, if Truman won with 17-1 odds against him it would be the biggest payout ever recorded. 

Yet Johnny eagerly took the wager. Surely being a 17-1 favorite made Dewey a lock to win.  He reasoned this would be the easiest ten grand he ever made. 

Hank arose at sunup on Election Day.  His walk was unsteady as he strolled along the river to the depot for his usual first cup of black coffee. 

The first train to arrive was the Denver Zephyr.   As usual, he met Buddy who apologized to Hank because there was only one newspaper left behind that morning, the bulldog late night edition of the Chicago Tribune.  

Hanks heart sank as he read the bold headline.  

DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN!

Obviously Dewey was more trustworthy than he, or the ladies, ever thought!

Hank had lost $10,000.  He was broke, busted, totally disgusted.  

Taking a deep breath and saying a short prayer he managed a wry smile      

while handing his Truman betting slip to Buddy as a souvenir of the largest political bet ever made in America. 

He gazed down at the railroad tracks as the Zephyr headed west out of Madison. 

Sipping his coffee he told Sadie the incredible betting story as he waited for the next train. Soon the shrill whistle alerted Hank of its’ arrival.  Billy Leatherwood, a porter on the California Zephyr,  handed Hank a stack of seven newspapers.  On top was the morning edition of the Chicago Tribune.  

His groan quickly turned to glee.  

That headline declared Truman the upset winner over the heavily favored Dewey. 

It seems a night editor, figuring, like most of the world, that Dewey would easily become the next president, jumped the gun and declared Dewey’s victory.  The late night bulldog edition may have been delivered on time, but the wrong headline embarrassed the Trib for decades. 

Hank was euphoric!  He jumped up, ran out the unlocked door of Harvey’s, sprinted home, jumped in his 1947 Studebaker coupe and sped west on Highway 48 hoping to catch the Zephyr at its next stop in Fairfield.  

He made it just in time.  Hank jumped on the train and ran through three Pullman cars yelling for Buddy. He finally found him in the dining car cleaning tables.  

Hank sheepishly told the porter the incredible Tribune story.   Buddy laughed and without hesitation handed his friend and benefactor the betting slip that was worth $170,000.  

Hank was so humbled and grateful he handed Buddy the keys to the Studebaker.  Both men were pleased. 

Hank the Bank watched the train pull out of the station as he walked across Blackhawk Avenue to the Hawkeye Cadillac dealership. 

He would soon drive home to Madison in style behind the wheel of a Madeira maroon Cadillac Club Coupe while raucously singing the popular Eubie Blake song “I’m Just Wild About Harry”.  

Together they made history.  

By Don Gardiner

From: United States