Medford mail tribune., June 14, 1959, Image 42

JEwa,mJLlyr WeeJcly
June 14, 1959
the President's- son!
Prying eyes and envious critics make life hectic
for Maj. John Eisenhower and his family;
sometimes he can't even tell who his real friends are.
by Jack Harrison Pollack
When Maj. John Eisenhower was nomi
nated to be a lieutenant colonel, some
envious Americans scoffed, "No wonder he
got promoted his old man's the boss! My life
would be a snap, too, if my father were Presi
dent of the United States!"
Obviously, there are advantages in being
President Eisenhower's only child. But there
are also disadvantages, a lot of them.
The editors of Family Weekly asked me to
assess them, based on my talks with John
Eisenhower himself, his charming wife
Barbara, their relatives,, family friends, and
White House officials.
To begin with, if your father is President,
you have considerably less freedom than the
average American. You lead a kind of goldfish-bowl
existence. Unlike those who revel
in being in the public eye, 36-year-old Major
Eisenhower dislikes having his private life
invaded. He would prefer to live quietly with
his family in their modest Alexandria, Va.,
house, but as "Ike Jr." that's not possible.
One of the penalties in being the President's
son is that photographers are always ready to
focus on you and your family. Not long ago
they even invaded the privacy of his small
Gettysburg cottage by setting up long-range
telephoto lenses on a nearby road to photo
graph him visiting his father.
John Siscrtltower, though, ia far more ron
ewiwd bmt th lmeliffhVa effect on his four
children: David, 11, Anne, 10, Susan, 7, and
) Mar j Jean, 3. "Iff noi fond for kids to get
Ut muph attention," ht lays. ."David espe
cially at it up he's real ham. He'd stand
on his head if the photographers asked him.
But Barbara and I want to keep oar kids as
normal as possible." '
Nowadays, whenever John Eisenhower is
assigned to a new Army post, he immediately -invites
newsmen to a press conference in an
attempt to get the publicity over with. At one
such conference at Fort Belvoir, Va., several
years ago, I remember how Major Eisenhower
insisted that all pictures be taken outside. "I
don't want the strong lights to bother the
kids," he explained.
Another disadvantage in being the Presi
dent's son is that regardless of how capable
or hard-working you are, cynics will always
say that your advancement is due to your
name ratner than to your abilities. Actually,
John Eisenhower leans over backward not to
take advantage of his name or position. Many
of his Army colleagues have told me that he
is careful not to ask for favors precisely
because he is the President's son.
"John works harder than most of us because
of this desire to stand on his own two feet,"
says an officer who served with him. "But
what's really tough is that, in his heart, he may
never know how good an officer he really is."
Major Eisenhower's problem is complicated
by the fact that some people will always make
things easier for him just as some will make
it harder because his father is Commander-in-Chief.
When Ike's son was stationed over
seas and at camps throughout the U.S., it
often embarrassed him when visiting brass
went out of their way to look him up.
Still, John's promotions to date haven't been .
as fast as many of his 1944 West Point class
mates. When he became a captain in March,
1946, about half of his class had already
achieved that rank (even though John was in
the upper third of his class). The same was
true when he made major in August, 1951.
On March 14 of this year he was numlfcr
1,002 on a list of 1,319 recommendations for
lieutenant colonel, and he probably won't
make it until the Spring of 1960. ComDared
with his classmates, this isn't unusually rapid
advancement. Some officers even hold his
name against him when he comes up for
promotion.
It would be easier for Ike's son to get ahead
if he weren't in the Army. A hard-boiled
Washington insider reflects, "If John were a
lawyer, insurance man, or business executive,
he could make a barrel of money because his
clients would try to cash in on his connections.
But how can you make a buck in the Army?"
In July, 1957, John considered leaving the
Army when an Eastern university offered him
a job at three times his Army pay (he now
makes about $735 a month, and as a lieuten
ant colonel he would make about $815 a
month). He pondered the offer not only be
cause he has four young mouths to feed but
because he enjoys the academic atmosphere;
he taught English at West Point in 1951 while
studying for his master's degree at Columbia
University.
Finally, though, he turned down the offer,
realizing that it may have been tendered to
him because of who he was. He had another
reason which he explained to his father this
way: it's difficult to keep young officers in
service today, and it would look bad for the
President's son to quit the Army merely for
a higher-paying civilian job. When Dwight
Eisenhower proudly told this story to a group
of ConPTPUnuin Via munut nonU.. :
CD J CllllCIUClli 11
isn't easy being the son of the President."
ProhnMv .TnVin'c Vintvlnct TnU.. U..U
is not knowing who his real friends are. The
suspicion that he may not be. liked just for
himself is unavoidable. It probably accounts
for John's reputation for being reticent and
aloof. But what is often mistaken for shyness
is his detp conviction that everybody even
a President's son has a right to privacy. I
find him publicity-constrained, not shy.
Several years ago, while visiting him and
Barbara at his Fort Leavenworth Army home,
I casually asked him how he felt about being
in the national spotlight.
"Well, I'm used to it by this time," he ad
mitted. "Whenever I come to a new post, I'm
a curiosity for a while more of a curiosity
thanI may realize. But when we get settled
down after a few weeks, I'm generally taken
for granted by everyone."
Last year when working in the Pentagon,
Major Eisenhower found that out in strong
terms. During a staff meeting which he at
tended, another Army officer exclaimed, "Now
if the President only knew what in the devil
this was all about ." The President's son
remained nonchalant, making no comment,
omJ fUn A .CT. 9. . 11 1 1
umter wHsn i aian emoarrassea.
John didn't have any of these problems
during his first 18 years. He led an obscure
existence as an "Army brat." Ike was just
another Army captain and major then.
John was undecided whether to become a
newspaperman-educator like his Uncle
Milton, a lawyer like his Uncle Edgar, or a
soldier like his father. Though the choice was
unmistakably his own, his father may have
influenced him indirectly.
In the Fall of 1940, tall, blue-eyed John
Eisenhower entered Millard's, a Washington,
D.C., prep school for West Point, where most
of the students were sons of regular Army
officers. One day a classmate asked him, "Is
that fair-haired lieutenant colonel everybody
is talking about your dad?"
"Don't hold it against nle." replied John.
When he graduated from West Point on
June 6, 1944 the D-Day launched by his
father John Eisenhower got his first real
taste of being a celebrity. "I was suddenly
surrounded by banks of photographers," he
recalls. They've never been far from him since.
r urino the Korean war when his father was
running for President for the first time,
John was Quite sensitive about what ho nnllorl
his "notoriety." Major Eisenhower, who rose
to be assistant chief of staff of G-2 tinfolli.
gence), received a crank letter denouncing
his father. A fellow officer who saw it said, "I
hope you'll tell that stinker off!"
"I'm just going to write and try to explain
why I think he's wrong," replied John. "After
all, he's entitled to his opinion."
When President-elect Eisenhower flew to
Korea, his soldier son characteristically re
mained in the background while his father
talked to his commanding officers. When out
going Commander-in-Chief Truman ordered
John home briefly in January, 1953, to attend
his father's inaugural, Major Eisenhower be- ,
came angry at first for being snatched from
his front-line duties. But later he realized it
was just a thoughtful gesture by President
Truman, and he told an Army buddy, "Gosh,
but the White House is big. And a lot more
comfortable than Korea!"
Today Maj. John Eisenhower is on tempo
rary assignment at the White House as an
- assistant tr Rricr
- -o v w t v . uuuupaotci!
a Presidential staff secretary. If his father
Weren't ttlP PrMlrlonf Via rtrnkottlir 1J.'t
have this job. But Major Eisenhower is a
soldier and has to follow orders. Yet I suspect
that John often wishes that he were stationed
elsewhere than the Washington area because
it only complicates his life.
Usually spurning Washington party invita
tions, the young Eisenhowers confine their
social life to a small group of Army friends.
They dislike name-droppers or any form of
pretentiousness. Not long ago when he was
asked if he planned to join the Army-Navy
club, John replied, "I'm not sure I can afford
it. Besides, the club has such a long waiting
list, it might take years to get accepted."
A sensible, good-looking future lieutenant
colonel doesn't talk about the disadvantages
of being the only son of the 34th President of
the United States. He emphasizes the positive.
But when I add it all up, I can only conclude
that it's mighty tough to be the President's son.
4 Family Weekly. June 14. 1959
Family Weekly, Jv&U, 0