Four to Go

An old nursery rhyme summed up the order of Harry Truman's working schedule for the week.

One for the Money . . . The first thing Mr. Truman did on the morning of Douglas MacArthur's urgent message was to put in a call for his National Security Council. It decided on little more than a blitz review of the defense budget and a proposed increase of some $4 billion to make a total of $17.9 billion (see below).

Two for the Show . . . Then the President turned his attention to making a show of unconcerned business & pleasure as usual. At lunch time, he hustled six blocks downtown to the massive Department of Justice building to attend a celebration of Attorney General Howard McGrath's 47th birthday and 21st wedding anniversary. That night he kept a date with his old Secretary of Agriculture, New Mexico's Senator Clint Anderson, to play the piano at a private little party at the elegantly inconspicuous 1925 F Street Club.

But the show of shows was the pilgrimage of the 193-man presidential party--Cabinet members, old congressional friends and reporters--to the Army-Navy football game in Philadelphia. (Defense Secretary George Marshall and Joint Staff Chiefs Bradley, Sherman and Vandenberg went up on their own. "Missing it," explained Sherman, "might have caused more of a flurry than going.") A special pilot engine, tugging three cars full of Secret Service agents and railroad detectives, pulled out five minutes ahead of the presidential special to scout out possible sabotage along the 133-mile run.

The special had just pulled safely on to a siding beside Philadelphia's Municipal Stadium when the cops clapped two bystanders in jail because one said to the other: "If I had a gun, I could have bumped him off." (Later, they were released when they explained they were just saying how easy it would be to outsmart the Secret Service.) While the President relaxed in his steam-heated box during the game (see SPORT), a special patrol of Air Force F-51s kept watch overhead, once zipped past a hovering light plane to warn it away from the big bowl.

Three to Make Ready. The first hint of tough action against the Chinese came during Harry Truman's jampacked press conference at midweek. The President began by reading a prepared statement. It condemned the Communists and warned that the U.N. forces might suffer reverses, but "have no intention of abandoning their mission in Korea."

A reporter picked up a presidential remark that every weapon the U.S. had would be made available to General MacArthur: "Mr. President," he declared, "you said that means every weapon that we have. Does that mean that there is active consideration of the use of the atomic bomb?"

There has always been, the President replied. He didn't want to see it used, he said as he sadly shook his head. It is a terrible weapon; it should not be used on innocent men, women & children who have nothing to do with this military aggression. That, he said, was what happened when the bomb was used.

Another reporter wanted to be certain he had heard right. "Did I understand you to say that the use of the atomic bomb is under active consideration?" It has always been, Mr. Truman said: it is one of our weapons.

Four to Go. The State Department, in a matter of minutes, began quaking at such boldness. When the shock waves hit Western Europe, newspapers blazed with headlines. Did this mean that Douglas MacArthur could drop the atomic bomb whenever he felt like it? No, no, no, said the White House in a formal statement three hours later. Under the law, only the President may authorize use of the bomb, and "no such authorization has been given."

But Britain's Prime Minister Clement Attlee could still feel the ground shaking. He swiftly took the pulse of his cabinet and his opposition, and decided to hustle off to Washington for a personal conference with the President. From the U.S. embassy in London came an urgent query: Could Clem Attlee fly over? Secretary of State Acheson got on the private wire to the White House. Fifteen minutes later he cabled back one urgent word: "Agree."

Harry Truman, his pearl grey Stetson conspicuous among the diplomatic Homburgs, was on hand at Washington's National Airport 22 minutes before Attlee arrived. A freezing wind whipped at the heavy, dark blue presidential overcoat. "This is London weather," he commented to Dean Acheson. "He ought to feel at home." Mr. Truman had a cheery greeting for India's Madame Ambassador Pandit, but turned away to talk football to the security guard.

Finally Attlee's Boeing Stratocruiser set down gently on the runway. The door opened; Attlee plunged down the steps to give Harry Truman's hand a vigorous shake. Later that day, across a long table in the White House cabinet room, they began their crucial conferences.

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