"Congratulations, Harry, the speech was a great success. Honestly, today I finally saw the demeanor of a true president in you."
At a hotel in Philadelphia, which served as the temporary campaign headquarters, Leo spoke to Truman.
"I've been thinking about why you managed in two years what others couldn't achieve in several generations.
And I've come to a conclusion, Leo—you're different from most people in this world. You're not afraid of losing.
There's always a confidence in you, as if even if you lose everything, you can always fight to win it back.
I don't have your age or courage to start over, but at least I've realized one thing: we must dare to lose.
And if I lose, so what? I'll just go back to being a farmer—I could even publish a memoir."
Truman's frankness moved Leo. Truly, no figure who made it into the annals of history was ever simple.
Looking at John Stillman, who was standing nearby with a sullen expression, Leo chuckled and teased:
"Looks like you've regained your job as Chief of Staff. Congratulations, John.
But as the actual head of the campaign committee, I must remind you: if you want to help Harry, then tell me, and I'll direct resources to where they'll do the most good.
If you can't do that, then keep silent. As Harry's adviser, you shouldn't meddle too much in an election of this scale."
John's face flushed crimson as he glared at this man twenty years his junior who dared lecture him in the tone of an elder. The humiliation was unbearable. But he couldn't leave—Dewey had already slammed the door on him. All his chips were now riding on Truman.
Thinking this, John reluctantly nodded under Leo and Truman's gazes, swallowing the shame.
Leo's public dressing-down of John may have slightly undermined Truman's prestige, but it also strengthened Truman's control over John. After all, in Truman's team, Leo's influence was overwhelming. If John wanted to survive and profit, his only hope was to cling to Truman.
"Sit down, Harry. Let's talk about what comes next," Leo said after they moved to the sofa area.
"This convention has stabilized the Democratic base. But we both know speeches only provide temporary cohesion. We must take strong action to maintain unity within the party."
Truman frowned. He had thought of this already, but in the campaign he had run out of attack options. Dewey was an almost flawless opponent.
Having no ideas himself, Truman glanced at John—who sat there looking lost—sighed inwardly, and turned to Leo. If Leo raised the issue, he must have a plan.
"So, what do we do?" Truman asked.
"Of course, continue attacking Republican hypocrisy," Leo answered.
Before Truman could respond, John interjected:
"Didn't Thomas already do that? Republican approval ratings are indeed dropping, but it hasn't touched Dewey."
"That's because before, the Republican Party's power hadn't fully transferred to Dewey. Their connection wasn't strong. But now that the national convention is over, Dewey has essentially secured the support of every Republican. Every bit of their power will be used to make him president. Which means hitting the Republican Party is the same as hitting Dewey."
"Do we still let Thomas run this?" Truman asked.
Leo shook his head.
"No. With the decisive battle so close, you must step in personally. Thomas doesn't have your influence. We need a major news event, something that shows the entire nation just how hypocritical the Republicans really are."
"How do we do that?" Truman asked.
"Today is July 20. Starting tomorrow, we'll mobilize every Democrat in the country. Under your call, we'll force the Republicans to convene a joint session of Congress. At the same time, you'll invoke a presidential special order to demand debate on all the proposals we've submitted in recent months. I've already consolidated them into one package: The Economic Recovery Act.
"Dewey has been accusing you of being responsible for the economic downturn. Well, through this joint session, we'll put forward the Economic Recovery Act and let the American people see for themselves who the real hypocrites are. Once the Republican Party is branded as a hypocritical party, then what does that make their candidate?"
Leo's words lit up Truman's eyes, but John quickly interjected:
"Presidential special orders are usually reserved for wartime. Doing this risks breaking long-standing political rules. And besides, both chambers are normally back in their states this month handling local affairs. If you suddenly summon them, state business will be disrupted."
This time Leo didn't even need to rebut. Truman rose to his feet, towering over John:
"I told you before—I have nothing left to lose. If that's the case, then rules won't bind me. And state affairs may be important, but they're not more important than my presidential election.
"Maybe, John, you should start thinking more about my position and interests, like Leo does."
Turning to Leo, he declared firmly:
"Do it, Leo."
After twenty-four hours of nonstop work, even Leo felt mentally exhausted. Everyone else retired to rest, but Leo climbed into Walter's car.
Walter, knowing his destination, started the engine and gave a report:
"At this Democratic convention, Philadelphia council elections were held. Per your instructions, Boss, Councilman Kelly was successfully elected as a city councilor. And Mayor Beckett even gave him the important post of Transportation Commissioner."
"Thank Beckett for me," Leo replied, eyes closed, resting.
Meanwhile, in the Kelly family's Roxborough mansion, Grace sat on the sofa surrounded by relatives urging her to reconcile with Leo.
But Grace was a woman of temper. After her father spoke, she rose, glared at him, and said fiercely:
"Father, when I returned from New York, you accused me of disgracing the family by becoming a billionaire's mistress. You withdrew me from school without my consent, locked me at home, and tried to force me into a marriage with Rice Mason.
"You never treated me as your daughter—only as a tool. And now, just because Leo gave you the council seat you always wanted, you tear up the Mason engagement and expect me to crawl back to serve the playboy billionaire you once despised? To keep being his mistress?"
"You insolent child!" Kelly raised his hand in fury to strike her, but froze mid-swing. Not because of fatherly love—but because he knew Valentino was a vengeful man. If his daughter bore a slap mark, he risked losing his council seat.
Seeing through his hollow bluster, Grace sneered:
"Once I step out this door, you'll no longer have a daughter named Grace Kelly. You've traded her for your position."
With the pride of a swan, she strode out of the mansion.
A Lincoln idled at the curb. Grace climbed in, and as the door shut, tears welled in her eyes. A heart may grow cold, but it still feels pain.
She knew she was now without family protection, perhaps doomed to be just another man's mistress, her future resting entirely on one man's whims.
No—she wouldn't accept that. Wiping her tears, she turned to Leo and declared:
"I want to go to Hollywood!"
Seeing her stubborn pout, Leo softened and nodded.
"I'll assign you a bodyguard," he said. He knew Hollywood's dangers well. Without protection, this "White Swan" might not survive.
Grace wasn't comforted—she had truly lost her home. Leo wasn't one for tender words. He preferred efficiency, real solutions.
And that night, in their Philadelphia hotel suite, amid the rhythm of the mattress, Grace soon forgot her tears, replaced with shy laughter. Her sadness was drowned by passion, and instinctively, in her ecstasy, she even cried out Evelyn's name, her old comrade.
The next day, refreshed, they parted at Philadelphia airport. Grace boarded for Hollywood. Leo flew back to Washington.
Back in the capital, Truman wasted no time. He signed a presidential emergency order declaring a national economic crisis and summoned an emergency joint session of Congress.
For the first time since Roosevelt's death, the entire Democratic Party united behind one action. It struck a chord with ordinary Americans still suffering from the postwar downturn.
The nation erupted with support—even Republican constituents demanded Congress convene.
Leo was astonished. His newspapers, The New Times and The World Journal, hadn't even needed to act; the convention was inevitable.
By July 26, Republicans had rushed their lawmakers back. But as they settled in, they realized something was different—four television cameras were set up, and the press gallery overflowed with journalists.
Then Truman himself took the podium and proposed the Economic Recovery Act.
His speech wasn't exceptional, but the symbolism was immense: rarely did presidents personally present legislation. Such bills were usually passed out of respect.
But this one was filled with measures Republicans had planned to champion under Dewey. Now, they couldn't possibly pass it.
So they sat in stony silence.
Truman had expected this. One by one, Democratic leaders rose to lobby personally. But after day one, the proposal was voted down. Day two, again. Day three, four, five… eleven days in total.
By the eleventh day, Truman was hoarse, but Republicans still coldly voted "No."
Eleven days wasted. Yet those eleven days were broadcast live on national television and radio. Newspapers dissected the drama daily, while Leo's New Times reduced it to sharp, biting headlines that reached millions.
In just eleven days, the Republicans went from "party of America's bright tomorrow" to "the hypocrites."
The World Journal's editor-in-chief coined a term: "The Do-Nothing Congress."
In New York, over dinner, Robert Taft told Leo:
"Your strategy was ruthless. Some congressmen don't even dare return home for fear of being pelted with rotten eggs."
"We need something more direct," Leo replied, savoring foie gras. "Like Dewey's approval ratings falling."
Taft shook his head.
"I'd like that too. But unfortunately, your dramatic counterattack has only forced Republicans to close ranks. They all agree: endure just four more months. No matter what happens to them personally, as long as Dewey stays perfect.
"If you had acted earlier in the year, some might have cracked under pressure. But with only four months left, I think they'll hold."
"So you're telling me Dewey will definitely win?" Leo asked.
"Yes. Your side is simply weaker. But I don't want him to win too easily. Here—take this."
He handed Leo a reel of film.
"While you were attacking, Dewey was busy too. He hired Hollywood directors to produce a warm, touching short film. He's secured distribution across every major theater. It'll be playing soon. Watch it and prepare."
Leo hadn't expected this. He hurried back to New York, where Truman was campaigning, and together they screened the film.
It was a twenty-minute biopic: a small-town boy from the Midwest who worked his way up to become Governor of New York. It showed him tenderly with his family, doing community service—embodying traditional American values.
At the end, Dewey looked into the camera and promised a "new beginning for America."
As the credits rolled, Daniel stormed in with the Washington Post, tossing copies to both Leo and Truman.
The headline: Fifty of America's top political journalists had been polled anonymously. All fifty voted for Dewey.
"Brilliant tactics," Leo muttered. "A film to win over the masses, and a journalist vote to crush our spirits."
In this era, when only elites could shape political opinion, those fifty names represented authority. If they all chose Dewey, what message did that send?
And the bad news kept coming. The phone rang. Leo picked up, then reported grimly:
"Harry, that was Gallup. Tomorrow they'll release June's numbers. You're at 32%. Dewey is at 64."
Truman covered his face, despair etched deep. Even with Leo's maneuvering, the gap was insurmountable.
"What should I do?" he whispered.
The campaign office was cloaked in gloom. Everyone felt their efforts had been wasted. Truman was doomed.
But Leo crouched down, his voice firm:
"Harry, until the very last moment, we haven't lost. Didn't you always say I create miracles? Believe me—we will create one."
John sneered inwardly. A two-to-one gap? Miracles? Better to surrender early and save face.
But Truman wasn't John. Having shed his fear of loss, what remained was an obsessive hunger to win. He grabbed Leo's hand.
"Is there another way?"
Leo shook free, grimacing. "Harry, you've been president for years, but people barely know you. Roosevelt's shadow was too great. Combined with economic woes and attacks on your farmer background, people assume you're incompetent.
"The priority now is to let the people truly know you."
"Another film?" Truman asked.
John cut in, mocking: "Too late. Dewey's film has already set the narrative, and he looks far better on screen."
Leo ignored him and continued:
"No, not a film. Dewey's was too perfect—it feels fake. Tell me, Harry, have you ever met someone so flawless in real life?"
Truman frowned. "You're saying we should show something more real? But when you show reality, some people like it, others don't."
"Exactly," Leo said. "So we won't make a film. We'll leave Washington, get on a train, and go directly to the people. Town by town. Let them see you, hear you, and decide for themselves who you are.
"And don't worry about some disliking you. The New Times already covers every city and most towns. We'll tailor speeches to each place—its people, its local stories.
"Bring your wife and daughter. Joke about being outnumbered at home. Show them you're just like them—a man who works for his family.
"Forget Dewey's fake film. We'll stage the real thing.
"I call it—The Great Expedition!"
The office fell silent. For over a century, campaigns had been elegant affairs. Leo's plan was like taking the play off the stage and into the streets.
Crazy. And yet… it felt right.
Truman rose, fire in his eyes. "I have nothing left to lose. Let's do it!"
He embraced Leo, applause erupting around them.
Only John sat sour-faced, thinking, This will end in disaster.
But Truman no longer feared failure. He wanted victory more than ever.
And so, on September 7, 1948, Truman's campaign train departed for Iowa—thus beginning The Great Expedition.
Inside the train, everyone was tense and busy. Leo held a set of data, analyzing it for Truman:
"According to Gallup, in the past, in this town called Price, 48% of farmers voted for Dewey. But who is Dewey? A man from an elite family. And you, Truman, are a true farmer. That is your common ground—and your breakthrough."
Truman nodded, but he had his own worries.
"The key is, will the people of Price even come to hear me speak? Will the train station cooperate?"
"Don't worry about that," Leo assured him. "Norfolk, a shareholder of American Realty, owns half the shares in the Price train station. For the two hours of your speech, not a single train will pass. Every space with a view or earshot of the rear platform—platforms, tracks, everything—will be cleared for the townsfolk.
"As for the audience, even less of a concern. Most people in Price are Seventh-day Adventists. Bishop Harris is already in the town rallying for you. American Realty has also pledged to upgrade the police facilities, so the entire police force will be on site to maintain order.
"On top of that, The Daily News has a branch here and has been building hype for days, telling everyone that the President himself will speak. Truman, you are the first president in the history of Price to ever give a speech here. For farmers who have never left their town, your arrival is the biggest event in a hundred years. Of course they'll come."
Soon the train pulled into Price.
Truman took a deep breath and rose nervously. With his wife and daughter, he stepped onto the rear platform, custom-built for speeches.
Holding his script—though he had memorized it—Truman still feared he might forget.
But as Leo said, everywhere he looked, there were people.
Truman tossed the paper aside. He was no longer nervous. Their faces looked too familiar, too much like his own twenty years earlier, when he too had been just a farmer. He was speaking to his brothers—what was there to fear?
"Dear citizens of Price, good day! As you can see, I am President Truman!"
He meant to continue, but the cheers drowned him out. It wasn't that the townsfolk adored him; it was exactly as Leo had said: Truman was the first president they had ever seen with their own eyes. This was a once-in-a-lifetime event, a moment they felt was history itself.
Nothing could compare to standing face-to-face with the leader of the nation—not a radio voice, not a shadow on a black-and-white screen.
From the crowd, someone even shouted:
"Harry, you look better than on TV!"
As the laughter and cheers subsided, Truman's smile grew brighter. In that instant, he fell in love with the feeling.
He introduced his wife:
"As you can see, this is the boss of my house."
Then he pointed to his daughter:
"And this is the boss's boss."
A simple joke, but it sent ripples of warm laughter through the men in the crowd. In that moment, the President seemed just like them—afraid of his wife, afraid of his daughter. A family man. Subconsciously, they branded him as one of their own—a good man devoted to family.
After introducing his wife and daughter, Truman pointed to a kindly, portly man near the front.
"Father Locke, I hear you just had an appendectomy. Thank you for coming even while recovering."
Then he gestured to a young man on the platform clutching a wrench.
"And you, Gleeson—I heard you saved a little girl from drowning just two days ago. Well done, young man. America is proud to have citizens like you."
Father Locke was the most respected figure in town, and Gleeson had just done a heroic deed. For the President to single them out made everyone feel even closer to him.
When the applause quieted again, Truman launched into his speech in a seamless, relaxed tone.
There were no stumbling blocks—the speech had been written by Leo, filled with plain words and simple phrases. Easy to remember, easy to deliver. And judging by the cheers, the audience understood every word.
Both Truman and the townsfolk were delighted.
They had expected the usual dull political speech, something incomprehensible, endured only for the free handouts afterward. But Truman's speech was different: they understood it, they understood exactly what benefits his policies would bring, and they saw clearly how Dewey's plans would harm them.
Woo—!
The train began to move. Truman lingered at the back, reluctant to leave. Not a single person had walked away during the entire two-hour speech. Many even chased after the train, shouting as they ran:
"Harry, you can do it! I'll support you!"
Truman stayed on the platform until Price disappeared from view.
Back inside, he sat beside Leo and said:
"In all these years, this is the first time I truly understood what a campaign speech should be. Where do we go next?"
"Rochert. But there, you can only stay forty minutes—not two hours."
"Why? The town won't cooperate?" Truman asked anxiously.
Leo shook his head.
"They'll cooperate. But Harry, you have too many places to visit. We can't waste time."
The train rolled on through Iowa, Kansas, and Colorado. Almost every stop was packed to overflowing. Soon, towns were inviting Truman to speak without any persuasion from Leo at all.
The success owed much to Leo's heavy spending to have NBC broadcast the tour live, The World Times running special issues on the train journey, and The Daily News printing booklets that explained Truman's policies in simple terms for ordinary folk.
A month passed with remarkable results. Gallup showed Truman's support rising to 43% in September, while Dewey's fell to 51%.
The momentum shift was sharpened when reporters from The Daily News caught Dewey vacationing leisurely on a yacht—juxtaposed with photos of Truman sweating on the back of a train, giving speeches.
The comparison hit hard.
Crash! Crash! Crash!
Every decoration in Dewey's study was smashed. He roared at his campaign chairman:
"I told you to keep an eye on Leo! This is what you call keeping an eye? Why didn't we counter his train tour?"
The chairman, bitter but silent, remembered all too well: a month ago, Dewey himself had dismissed Truman as a showman and rushed off on holiday.
Now, to keep his job, the chairman kept his mouth shut.
Dewey eventually cooled and muttered:
"The party wants me to act. They don't expect me to regain the old lead, but they won't accept me losing more ground. Fine. I'll start a train tour tomorrow."
"Yes, Governor. I'll contact the southern states—they're our weak spot. Let's win them over."
But Dewey glared at him.
"Idiot. I said stop the gap from shrinking—not go chasing lost causes. I won't waste energy in the South. We'll go to the same towns Truman visited and take back what's ours. I believe the Midwest still belongs to me."
When Truman's train reached Nevada, he heard the news of Dewey's trip to Price.
Honestly, he panicked. He feared Dewey would pick the fruit he had cultivated, turning a month's effort to waste. Distracted, he couldn't even read his Las Vegas speech.
"Where's Leo? Where's Leo?" he kept asking, as if only Leo could steady him.
At last, Leo walked in with a thick stack of papers.
"Calm down, Harry. We've already won. Look at what Dewey did."
Truman skimmed the file at a glance.
Leo explained:
"These are the comments from Price townsfolk:
'He came, he smiled, he waved, he never left his script. He spoke words we couldn't understand. Then he left.
'I asked him what America's future would be, and he only answered: "Your future is bright, America needs unity, the power of peace"—nonsense among nonsense.
He's garbage, no doubt about it!'"
Truman exhaled with relief, laughing.
"So Dewey is still playing it safe. He's nervous—he's afraid!"
Leo grinned.
"Exactly. He's tied himself up, while we're free to fight all out. Harry! Next stop—Las Vegas!"