Home to Abilene

The U.S. last week got its first good look at Ike Eisenhower, top hero of the war. To the millions who saw him in person were added more millions who saw him in photographs and newsreels, or heard his pleasantly deep voice over the radio. The U.S. liked what it saw--a modest man, natural in everything he did; a kindly, common-sense man; a warrior who remembered that he was a citizen; a son of the Middle-West, unhardened by war, unspoiled by fame.

He arrived, in a four-engined Skymaster. at Washington's crowd-fringed National Airport. He was tanned, smiling, taller and more youthful-looking than the crowd had expected. As cheers and applause went up, he caught sight of his wife, Mamie, ran down the portable steps and kissed her with unabashed fervor. While photographers elbowed for a shot, he climbed into an Army automobile, embarked on a triumphal tour unparalleled in U.S. history.

A million men, women & children were jammed along the capital's wide avenues. People hung from windows, perched in trees. As the General passed, the roar of welcome all but drowned out the bands along the street. He stood in his car, arms outstretched, grinning as though at old friends. When police lines broke at 14th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, he leaned out to shake hands with those who pushed against his automobile.

A Soldier's Hopes. After his ride in the 92DEG heat he was flushed and perspiring as he walked into the Capitol to address a joint session of Congress. He looked nervous as he adjusted thick-rimmed glasses. But though he hurried his words, his voice was firm and incisive. He spoke his "passionate belief" that forces capable of crushing the world's greatest war machine were also capable of keeping the peace. He bowed to new bursts of cheering when he ended. That night he dined at the White House. Everywhere he went, people lingered for a glimpse of him.

Next day New York welcomed him with a tumult which dwarfed the memory of receptions for Admiral Dewey, General

Pershing, Charles Lindbergh and Admiral Byrd. Still standing as he rode, still smiling, he was driven through 37 miles of Manhattan's streets, amid phalanxes of screaming, red-lighted police motorcycles, behind prancing police horses.

Along Fifth Avenue and in the high canyons of the financial district, clerks threw cautionings and paper to the winds, sent 77 tons of ticker tape and torn wastepaper fluttering down. (The tonnage for Lindbergh: 1,800.) Harlem's Negroes yelled like Indians on the warpath. Thirty thousand schoolchildren shrilled along Central Park drives. Everywhere the sound of cheering erupted deafeningly (after setting up a "noise meter" the stunned General Electric Co. calculated that it equaled 3,000 thunderclaps).

In Ten Years-- What? At City Hall, Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia (who wept during the parade) presented him with a gold medal, introduced him in squeaky superlatives. The General replied: "New York simply can't do this to a Kansas farmer boy and keep its reputation for sophistication." But again, as he talked, he quit smiling. Said he: "Can the parents of those children look ten years ahead and be satisfied with anything less than [their] best to keep them . . . from the horrors of the battlefield?"

After an afternoon at the ball game, he was dined at the Waldorf-Astoria. To an audience which had drunk fine wines, supped on lobster thermidor and breast of chicken, he said: "Prosperous nations are not war-hungry, but a hungry nation will always seek war." He warned against a return to isolation and national weakness: "From New York to my headquarters in Frankfurt is exactly 16 hours by air. You are that close to trouble if trouble starts in Europe. . . . Our interest is to see that we are strong. Weakness cannot cooperate with anything. Only strength can cooperate."

Blockbuster. Next day at West Point--where oldtimers remembered that he had once got demerits for sleeping at breakfast time--he dropped a verbal blockbuster: "The Navy, the Air Forces and the Army must be one unit. If I had my way they all would be in the same uniform." Brass Hat Eisenhower added: "Of course I don't suppose Congress or the big Brass Hats would ever agree to that."

Then he boarded his special five-starred plane (the Sim flower) for Kansas City. When it landed he stood stiffly at attention as Vs of fighter aircraft snarled overhead and a band played The General's March. The moment the last note sounded, he hurried toward his 83-year-old mother, Mrs. Ida Eisenhower, and gave her a hug which lifted her off the ground. For seconds neither could say a word. Then, beaming again, the General saw four men approach, shouted: "Hi Milt ... Hi Ed ... Hi Earl ... Hi Art. . . ." They were his brothers.* Together the family ducked into an airline's office for a hurried reunion.

The Last Lap. Yet another "biggest crowd in history" was waiting; there was yet another parade, another speech, another reception. Then the Eisenhowers got aboard a train for the trip to Abilene. At Topeka, the train started without him; he leaped for the step, slipped, fell flat, twisted a knee. By dusk, the train pulled in through the wheatfields around Abilene.

As he stepped down in his old home town (pop. 5,757) he called, "Boy, I'm glad to be back here!" He received a wooden key to the city from old friends. He visited his mother's white, old-fashioned house in the alfalfa fields at the edge of town, then went back to his special car for a good night's sleep.

When he woke just before 9 o'clock, 35,000 people from rural Dickinson County had crowded into town. In the bunting-draped reviewing stand, Ike Eisenhower settled down with obvious enjoyment to watch Abilene's greatest parade. There were floats depicting crop production, 17 bands, 400 cowboys and cowgirls. The General waved and shouted through cupped hands as his ten balding teammates of the 1909 Abilene High School football team (on which he had played left tackle) passed on a float, wearing numbered jerseys.

A Farm Boy's Dream. After the parade the crowd moved to the old Dickinson County Fair Grounds, ate sandwiches, drank pop and listened to General Ike. Said he: "I want to speak of the dreams of a barefoot boy. Frequently he sees himself as a policeman ... or locomotive engineer . . . but always in his dreams he is coming home to a welcome from his own home town. . . ."

In the week's celebration, many a verbal bouquet was thrown at General Ike. Not the least was the frequent call: "Our next President." But Ike replied: "There's no use denying that I'll fly to the moon because I couldn't if I wanted to. The same goes for politics."

*Milton S. Eisenhower, 45, president of Kansas State College, appointed last week as special assistant to the Secretary of Agriculture; Edgar Eisenhower, a Tacoma, Wash, attorney; Earl Eisenhower, a Charleroi, Pa. electrical engineer; and Arthur Eisenhower, vice president of Kansas City's Commerce Trust Co.

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