Three by the Sea

In a made-over club dining room at a society place called Tucker's Town, on the island of Bermuda, tiny flags of the U.S., Britain and France stood at the center of a round cedar table. Outside stood stiff-backed soldiers of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. At the exclusive but rundown Mid-Ocean Club, notice was posted: "Passes will not be required from the following:

"The President of the U.S.

"The Prime Minister of Britain.

"The Premier of France."

Beyond stood great scribbles of barbed wire. Beyond the wire stretched the Atlantic--at the place where, legend has it, ancient ships circled futilely, until mired at last in the Sargasso seaweed.

At that suddenly famous pinpoint on the earth, the men who lead the three great Western democracies came together last week with their retinues of Foreign Ministers, advisers, specialists and secret service guards. Ostensibly they met to box compasses and plot new directions before proceeding farther on that treacherous and often discouraging voyage, the quest for true peace with Russia. Actually they met--in the first full-dress conference of leaders of allied governments since Potsdam--not because they had dramatic new plans but because one of them, stout and determined old Winston Churchill, wanted a conference.

Neighbor on the Doorstep. The Prime Minister, snorting with authority, arrived in Jovian grandeur; at one moment fuming over a misplaced cigar-cutter, the next good-humoredly caressing the Welch Fusiliers' goat mascot, ducking the television microphones. His body was stooped, his right leg dragged noticeably at every step. The man with him, Anthony Eden, suntanned and casual, shared little of Sir Winston's anticipation.

Next came the French. Joseph Laniel, the husky, stolid Norman industrialist who governs precariously as France's 19th postwar Premier, slipped in like a silent bystander, unable to speak English, unwilling to say much anyway--lest it offend those back home who were considering him as a candidate for France's next President. At his side was pale, ailing Foreign Minister Georges Bidault. The two Frenchmen mistrust each other; in fact, through the 18-hour flight from Paris, the Premier spoke not a word to the Foreign Minister. Neither was sure he would even be in office a month hence, when France gets a new President and a new government, nor could either say surely where the people of France stand on the demanding issues that lay on the conference table. This, oddly enough, gave them a certain bargaining strength--the strength of a near bankrupt whom the creditors dare not squeeze too hard.

Last, in the crowded Columbine, came Dwight D. Eisenhower. A bandage decked one hand where, on the night before takeoff, he nicked it while showing Mamie how the Westerners once fanned their six-guns. With him came confident and well-prepared Secretary of State John Foster Dulles and a squad of experts (surprise among them: Atomic Energy Commission Chairman Lewis Strauss).

Eisenhower came a somewhat reluctant guest: he was willing to talk and to listen to the great leader with whom he had worked in World War II. But he was prepared also to argue, and to stand firm against any tendency in the old man to negotiate with Moscow at the expense of the West's still uncompleted defense.

Off to Buy Underwear. Jammed into quarters that were ludicrously small, with suitcases for desks, the specialists tried to get some order into a parley that had no agenda. Atomic Expert Strauss disappeared almost immediately with Sir Winston's friend and atomic adviser, Lord Cherwell. They went off "to buy some underwear," said an official with a smile.

The Foreign Ministers opened the formalities in the improvised conference room, amid the odors of fresh paint and the raucous crackle of heavy brown paper which Sir Winston personally ordered pasted over the glass in the doors. Before they even got to the matter of an agenda, someone mentioned Trieste. By the time they had finished that subject, two hours had passed, and it was time for the three leaders to join them.

As a courtesy, Sir Winston nominated Ike to be chairman. First subject: Soviet Russia's intentions. Eisenhower invited Laniel to speak first. Laniel motioned to Georges Bidault to speak for him, then sat sucking on a balky cigarette. Russia, said Bidault, is stepping up its attempt to divide the allies; Moscow has of late been making particularly gracious gestures toward the French. He believed the new Soviet regime wanted time to consolidate and improve conditions inside Russia. Sir Winston sat slumped in his chair, head down, glasses at nose's end, seeming to nod only to straighten up when prodded by a word or point that interested him. At last he pushed his glasses back into place, and gave his views of the Soviet.

We should not give anything away to the Russians, said he, but Stalin's death may have caused "a deep change in the mighty Kremlin," and we should miss no opportunity of shaking an extended hand whenever it is offered. Of course. Western unity must come first. But the West must not allow its attitudes to become frozen.

President Eisenhower replied. He was not sure at all that the Kremlin under Georgy Malenkov wore a new look: perhaps it was just the same old dress with some new trimmings. Under the circumstances, it would be wise to cross the street and have a longer look at the girl before making a date. The Communists have not changed fundamentally.

No Eavesdropping. Thus acquainted with U.S. firmness, Sir Winston did not even bother to bring up his private dream of flying off to Moscow alone for a face-to-face meeting with Premier Malenkov--a meeting "at the summit." Instead, the discussion shifted to a specific subject: Russia's sudden assent to a Big Four Foreign Ministers' meeting on Germany and Austria. The British hoped for a quick Western acceptance and a quick note to Moscow, so the outside world would not get the notion that this was the only reason for the Bermuda get-together. Early January in Berlin would be a good time and place, the Americans agreed. Bidault said France would prefer to hold it off for a while. At one point in the discussion, Dulles warned Eisenhower he was raising his voice, then stepped to the windows to see that no eavesdropping was possible.

Suddenly, the lights went out--one of Bermuda's periodic power failures. In the eerie light of candles and battery lamps, the leaders of the West conversed for another half hour, then adjourned to dine (black tie) and talk again next day. So it went for three more full days, without ever achieving the drama which the occasion and cast seemed to suggest.

After the first leaks, the original secrecy was tightened into an almost utter blackout for the large (146) and irritated corps of correspondents who had flocked to the island. Only driblets of official revelation were piped to the press quarters in the Castle Harbour Hotel a mile away:

P: Hale-looking Joseph Laniel had suddenly taken ill--a "chill" which later proved to be a lung infection--and returned to his bedroom for almost all the conference; the doctors insisted that it was not simply a diplomatic illness. Bidault was doing all the talking for France, anyway (and doing it well, according to insiders).

P: Eisenhower got up early Sunday morning to practice No. 8-iron shots, and make a few putts on Mid-Ocean's 18th green, then went to the chapel at the U.S. air base, Kindley Field, to hear a Baptist sermon; Bidault went to St. Theresa Church for Roman Catholic Mass. An aide asked the late-rising Churchill whether he planned attending services. "I'll meet my Maker soon enough," he rumbled.

P: With the French giving way, a note proposing early January for the Big Four Foreign Ministers' meetings was cleared through West German Chancellor Adenauer, then sent off to the Kremlin.

In four days around the cedar table, the allies eyed their common problems and found--as most of them had anticipated --that none could suddenly be transformed or erased simply by the presence of the top leaders. For example, the knotty problem of the European Army was, if anything, more tangled than ever. Before Bermuda, optimistic diplomats had been talking of possible French ratification of the EDC treaty in January. But at Bermuda, Bidault reiterated France's problems; the British subtly suggested that it was time to consider alternatives for getting Germans into uniform without EDC; the Americans would not hear talk of alternatives. By the time Bermuda broke up, no one was talking about French action before March.

Far more disconcerting than the lack of electric achievement--which was never in the cards--was the sense, before many hours passed, that the reunion of distinguished allies was proving not quite a happy one. American diplomats, from the President down, apparently did not detect in the greatly aged Churchill the intermittent flashes of genius and flair which those around him in London still see. The British, for the most part, did not conceal their unenthusiastic impression of Dwight Eisenhower as President.

But midway in the talks, one of those happy combinations of inspiration and coincidence plucked Bermuda out of the seaweed: the plan for Eisenhower to address the United Nations. Atomic Expert Strauss went over the speech in private with Lord Cherwell. The finished product was laid before the allies. "Pretty good speech," commented Georges Bidault. Churchill penciled a couple of suggestions and sent it back to Ike with a personal note: "Dear Ike: This is an excellent speech. You have dealt with an extremely delicate matter with your customary courage and boldness."

On that note, late one night last week, the Bermuda Conference disbanded. The leaders of the West went home, and the barbed wire was rolled away from the Bermuda beaches.

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