Break

The wives, sacks, cats, kits and other factors in the traffic jam on the road to St. Ives had nothing on the entourage that follows the President of the U.S. Last week when Dwight Eisenhower left on a brief vacation to limber up his midwinter kinks in Palm Springs, Calif., his departure resembled a middle-sized troop movement. In addition to his wife and mother-in-law, the President was accompanied by 22 Secret Service men, a personal party of 35 secretaries, aides and servants, and 24 reporters, photographers and radio-TV men, was joined in Palm Springs by 50 additional newsmen.

For two weeks--long before Ike was sure he could get away--Secret Service advance men had thoroughly cased Palm Springs for security. By the time he arrived, after a fast 9 1/2-hour flight across the country, two transcontinental telephone circuits were in readiness, linking Ike's temporary office directly to the White House; the Signal Corps had installed a switchboard and Teletypes, and Government couriers were already arriving in Palm Springs, bringing official papers from Washington. Federal cops were everywhere, dressed in plain clothes, which in Southern California means slacks and flamboyant sports shirts (with shirttails out--to hide their revolvers).

Grapefruit & Moonglow. Palm Springs, a gaudy, man-made oasis, has 674 swimming pools, 285 hotels and motels, grapefruit-laden trees, an abundance of gold-rinsed blondes, superb weather, and the unmistakable patina of Hollywood plastered like lipstick on the desert. Palm Springs is not Ike's cup of tea, and he had to fight for the vacation he wanted: rest, golf, fresh air and privacy. When he and Mamie stepped off the Columbine at the moon-bathed Palm Springs Airport, a crowd of 3,000 was on hand to greet them. But plans to deck the streets in bunting and turn the vacation into a chamber-of-commerce carnival were abruptly halted on a suggestion from the White House. The official welcoming ceremonies were brief, and the list of greeters was cut down (to the anguish of many California politicos) to Governor Goodwin Knight and a few top Republicans. Within 36 hours of his arrival, Ike received 1,200 letters and telegrams, mostly invitations from politicians and movie moguls. All were politely declined.

The President stayed at the luxurious ranch home of Paul Hoy Helms, a bakery president and personal friend, at Smoke Tree Ranch, a plush communal enclave of businessmen in Palm Springs. (The Secret Service picked Helms's home instead of the nearby one of Co-Host Paul Hoffman, because it is more secluded, and has a large, enclosed patio where Mamie and her mother could sunbathe in privacy.) On his first vacation day Ike was up early, worked an hour at his desk after break fast, then played 18 holes of golf at the Tamarisk Club with Hoffman, Helms, and Tamarisk's pro, famed Ben Hogan. (In his haste to get started, Ike put on his pullover sweater inside out.)

A crowd of club members and newsmen were permitted to look on as Ike's four some played the ninth and tenth holes, gave the President a big hand when he arched a difficult iron shot from behind a palm, bounced his ball off the pin on the ninth and stopped just three feet short of the cup. He got another round of applause when he holed out smartly for a par four, and responded with a big grin and a wave of his soiled white cap. When Hoffman missed a ten-foot putt by inches, Helms knocked his ball away, assuming it was a "gimme." Both Hogan and Ike, who believe in playing every putt, raised a howl. But a few minutes later they relented and conceded the shot.

Concentration. "You're plain lucky," said Paul Hoffman after Ike sank a long putt. "Lucky, nothing," huffed the President, in a good imitation of indignation. "It is just concentration." Ike believes that one of the main differences between good golf and duffer golf is concentration. If a player is thinking about anything but the golf club and the ball, he won't get a good shot. Ike's concentration paid off: when the tallies were added up, the President, with an 87 and Hogan with 67, teamed to beat Hoffman (96) and Helms (92), handily, despite a steep handicap.

On his third day in Palm Springs, the President called in the press to make a statement. The lines of fatigue were fading from his eyes and he looked relaxed. But he was boiling mad about the treatment Earl Warren had received in Washington (see below). "My comments on Governor Warren will be limited merely to my own opinion and position." he snapped. "My opinion of him and confidence in him is demonstrated by the fact that I nominated him to one of the highest offices in the land . . . Every contact I've had with him . . . has served only to increase my confidence in him and my high opinion." Then he whirled and strode toward his office door, but the spring lock had snapped, queering his exit. Ike threw up his hands and grinned as a Secret Service agent opened the door from within.

Drumstick & Deathwatch. On Saturday night it was Press Secretary James Hagerty's turn to be boiling mad. After he was hastily summoned from a steak fry to Smoke Tree Ranch, wild rumors, like a mouse at a sorority pajama party, threw the reporters into a tizzy. But after every angle had been checked and Smoke Tree was reported all quiet, most of the reporters retired. An hour later the New York Herald Tribune's solemn Robert Donovan was in bed reading Prince of Players, a biography of Edwin Booth. He had just reached an account of Lincoln's assassination when his telephone rang. "Bob," said a crisp voice, "get over here. Hagerty's here." Then the telephone clicked off.

Throwing on his clothes, Donovan raced breathlessly through the hotel, agog with thoughts of assassination. In the Mirador Hotel press room, he fell on Hagerty. "What's happened?" he gasped. "The President's knocked a cap off a tooth," said Hagerty solemnly.

That evening, while chewing on a chicken leg, Ike had dislodged the porcelain cap on a front tooth. He had gone to a nearby dentist for a quick repair job. Meanwhile, the reporters gave a fine demonstration of journalistic mob hysteria. The U.P.'s Merriman Smith infuriated Hagerty by reporting that Ike had required "medical treatment." The A.P. went him one better, flashed on its New York State wire the word that Ike was dead (and then retracted it seconds later). Next morning, when the President turned up for church services, he was in the best of health, the tooth cap in place.

After the difficult weeks of launching his legislative program and keeping it afloat in Congress, Ike felt an urgent need for his winter break. Lately he has been referring to the White House as the "old salt mine."* In Palm Springs he wholeheartedly gave himself over to golf, bridge, an occasional dip in a heated pool, and just relaxing under the tangerine trees--with a couple of hours of each day devoted to the work that would not wait. This week Ike and Mamie lingered on in Palm Springs, planned to prolong their stay to nearly a week. But soon, Ike knew, he would have to get back to the old salt mine.

*Ike's nickname recalled some of his predecessors' irreverent labels. Harry Truman referred to the White House as "the finest prison in the world." Franklin Roosevelt called it the "goldfish bowl," and to Lincoln it was "this damned old house."

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