THE PRESIDENCY: Season In the Sun

By day the sun shone warmly on the coral beaches. At night, the cool trade wind whispered through the palm trees. Harry Truman loafed. In the shaded seclusion of Key West’s submarine base, surrounded by his loyal lieutenants and faithful friends, the victor rested after the battle. It was a fine feeling.

Mornings, the President lay abed until 7:30 a.m.—far beyond his usual rising hour. With Adviser Clark Clifford, Vice President-elect Alben Barkley, and Senate Secretary-to-be Les Biffle, he walked daily over to the secluded enlisted men’s beach. There he donned a pair of trunks and splashed in the coral-green waters, using the peculiar head-out-of-water stroke he calls the “Missouri sidestroke.” Afterwards, he clapped his pith helmet on his head, lolled on the beach reading newspapers while his aides threw a ball or played darts.

Beards & Matches. In the afternoons, he prowled around the base, dressed in a tan slack suit whose rayon trousers bore a conspicuous patch. Evenings, there was “paper work” (poker) in the commandant’s white, jalousied house which serves as the Little White House. By 10 o’clock Harry Truman was in bed. Clark Clifford, who padded around barefoot sporting a three-day beachcomber’s beard, explained contentedly, “We’re getting more fun out of just sitting. My feet are getting so tough I can light a match on them.”

One day the President popped into the almost-deserted press lounge, sneaked up behind a pool player, asked suddenly: “Who’s behind the eight-ball?” The player turned around in annoyance, stifled a curse just in time as he recognized the man in the tan fishing cap and sunglasses. “Go ahead with your game,” grinned the President. Next week Washington’s ex-Governor Mon Wallgren would be arriving, Harry Truman promised, “and I’m going to bring him over and have him show you fellows how to play.”

The President peered into the next room, explained cheerily: “I just wanted to see that everybody is comfortable. Are you all fixed up? If not, I’ll give them the devil.” Someone wisecracked: “Give ’em hell.” Said Harry Truman: “I’m through giving them hell. Now we’ll work together.”

By midweek, a grey stubble was visible on the presidential chin. Encountering Truman at the officers’ pool, a newsman remarked: “Mr. President, it looks like you’re growing a Vandyke.” Said Truman: “That’s not a Vandyke, that’s a Jeff Davis.” The reporter quipped: “You must be courting the Southern rebels.” Truman laughed.

Something New. Harry Truman was not ready for any serious political pronouncements. He dropped in at the press lounge several times, once to invite newsmen to take a swim with him. Someone asked if he would hold a press conference. “Not if I can help it,” he declared promptly. When urged, he added: “Well, maybe, if you can think of some questions—and let me ask them.” On his last visit, his Jeff Davis beard was gone. Bess Truman and Margaret were arriving that day, he explained.

At week’s end, Harry Truman was seized with one of those humane impulses which exasperate bureaucrats but delight citizens. In a newspaper he read about the plight of Mrs. John S. Power, widow of a civilian economist employed by the Army in Berlin. Ten months after her husband’s death in a plane crash in Paris, Mrs. Power had still not received his insurance. The President ordered the Veterans Administration to get hopping. The VA grumbled, but hopped. Then the President boarded the Williamsburg for a daylong, family cruise across the green gulf waters to the Dry Tortugas.

Harry Truman had not had such a vacation since spring. But despite the relaxed atmosphere, reporters thought they noticed something new about Harry Truman. There was an air of firmness, a new confidence in his bearing. President-elect Truman seemed determined to run his own show in his own way.