Word for Word: Chief Executive Anger; Hell From the Chief: Hot Tempers And Presidential Timber
By THOMAS VINCIGUERRA
AS if presidential candidates don't already have enough tests of character to worry about -- financial impropriety, drug use, adultery -- now it seems they have to make nice as well. The Arizona Republic ran an editorial last week criticizing Senator John McCain for his ''volcanic'' temper, claiming that temperament is a legitimate campaign issue. The Republican responded by accusing the campaign of Gov. George W. Bush of Texas of helping to plant the charges against him, which first appeared in The New York Times. ''Do I insult anybody or fly off the handle or anything like that?'' Mr. McCain asked. ''No, I don't.''
But so what if he does? Judging from the behavior of some past chief executives, a hot temper seems almost a prerequisite for the Oval Office. Let's go to the presidential biographies. THOMAS VINCIGUERRA
George Washington wasn't always the dour icon of the dollar bill. At the Battle of Monmouth, he laced into Gen. Charles Lee for retreating instead of attacking. Burke Davis explains in ''George Washington and the American Revolution'' (Random House, 1975):
Washington roared: ''Whatever your opinions, sir, I expect my orders to be obeyed! . . .'' Lee protested once more that his plan of attack had been foiled by disobedient subordinates.
Others were to recall that Washington cursed Lee in a fury. General Scott cherished a long memory that Washington ''swore till the leaves shook on the trees.''
In ''Andrew Jackson and the Course of American Democracy'' (Harper & Row, 1984), Robert V. Remini recounts a 1836 Cabinet meeting over a crisis with Mexico:
Without stopping to inquire of the other members what their advice on the matter would be -- which was his usual procedure -- the president lashed out in a frightening display of Jacksonian passion.
''Write immediately to Commodore Dallas,'' he barked, ''and order him to blockade the harbor of Tampico, and to suffer nothing to enter till they allow him to land and obtain his supplies of water and communicate with the Consul, and if they touch the hair of the head of one of our citizens, tell him to batter down and destroy their town and exterminate its inhabitants from the face of the earth!''
The Cabinet members sat looking at each other in a near state of shock.
Ulysses S. Grant would send thousands of men to their deaths in the Civil War, but could not abide cruelty to animals. Gen. Horace Porter, who served with him, recalled in ''Campaigning With Grant'' (1897) what happened when Grant, astride his mount Egypt, saw a man whipping a team of horses:
Putting both spurs into Egypt's flanks, he dashed toward the teamster, and raising his clenched fist, called out to him: ''What does this conduct mean, you scoundrel? Stop beating those horses!'' The teamster looked at him, and said coolly, as he delivered another blow aimed at the face of the wheel-horse: ''Well, who's drivin' this team anyhow -- you or me?'' The general was now thoroughly angered, and his manner was by no means as angelic as that of the celestial being who called a halt when Balaam was disciplining the ass. ''I'll show you, you infernal villain!'' he cried, shaking his fist in the man's face. Then, calling to an officer of the escort, he said: ''Take this man in charge, and have him tied up to a tree for six hours as a punishment for his brutality.''
To end the coal strike of 1902, Theodore Roosevelt contemplated sending in troops to man the mines. Nathan Miller indicates in ''Theodore Roosevelt: A Life'' (Morrow, 1992) that Roosevelt felt the spirit of the Framers mattered more than the rights of a few individuals:
''What about the Constitution of the United States?'' Congressman James E. Watson protested to the president. ''What about using private property for public purposes without due process of law?''
Roosevelt stopped suddenly, took a firm grip on Watson's lapels and, looking him squarely in the eye, fairly shouted: ''The Constitution was made for the people and not the people for the Constitution!''
Warren G. Harding was incensed when he learned of corruption at the Veterans' Bureau under his friend Charles R. Forbes. In ''The Shadow of Blooming Grove: Warren G. Harding in His Times'' (McGraw-Hill, 1968), Francis Russell depicted him at the boiling point:
The next afternoon a visitor to the White House with an appointment to see the president was directed by mistake to the second floor. As he approached the Red Room he heard a voice hoarse with anger and on entering saw Harding throttling a man against the wall as he shouted: ''You yellow rat! You double-crossing. . . . '' Whirling about at the visitor's approach, Harding loosed his grip and the released man staggered away, his face blotched and distorted. ''I am sorry,'' Harding said curtly to his visitor. ''You have an appointment. Come into the next room.'' On leaving the White House, the visitor asked a doorman who it was who had just gone out after he had come in, and the doorman replied: ''Colonel Forbes of the Veterans' Bureau.''
When Harry Truman gave 'em hell, he often did so on paper. He wrote this memorable letter to Paul Hume, music critic of the Washington Post, following Mr. Hume's devastating review of a 1950 singing recital by the president's daughter, Margaret:
Mr. Hume: I've just read your lousy review of Margaret's concert. . . . Some day I hope to meet you. When that happens you'll need a new nose, a lot of beefsteak for black eyes, and perhaps a supporter below!
Lyndon B. Johnson perfected his bullying of subordinates during his 1948 Senate run. In this scene from ''Means of Ascent'' by Robert A. Caro (Knopf, 1990), his desire to shake hands with all the students at a high school is thwarted by an advance man:
''We don't have time, sir,'' Carter said, and produced the list of all the stops he was already scheduled to make. Johnson didn't even look at the paper; instead, he looked at Carter. As the principal observed the intensity of Johnson's glare, the hand he had extended to welcome the candidate slowly dropped to his side. The smiles faded from the faces of the delegation. There was a long silence. Then Johnson said, in a low, threatening tone that his aides feared more than any other: ''Are we gonna join the Can't Do It Club right here on the steps of Robstown High School?''
And what really drives President Clinton up the wall, according to Dick Morris, his former political adviser, is staff members leaking executive decisions that make their boss look politically conniving. Mr. Morris writes of the president in ''Behind the Oval Office'' (Random House, 1997):
He was red-faced as he yelled, ''I will do this race alone, alone, alone if I have to'' -- his voice now reaching a higher octave -- ''to avoid having done to me what was done to me every week, ev-er-y week, in 1993 and 1994 by my staff and my consultants. I will not have decisions that I make'' -- his fist now pounding his chair arm, keeping time with his words -- ''that take guts, that take courage, where I'm really risking everything, and have them transformed into'' -- his lips curling in a sneer -- ''seamy, seedy, political decisions so some staff member or some consultant can blow his own horn to look so smart and oh so good to some journalist. I'll do the race alone first.''
Okay, I think I got the point.