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Ike said no.

The renunciation was almost without precedent in U.S. political history. For months the Eisenhower star had risen steadily in the public-opinion polls. As a potential Republican nominee, he was the only candidate in sight who seemed to have a sure chance of beating President Harry Truman. But last week General Ike abruptly took himself out of the race.

He did it in an 802-word letter to Leonard V. Finder, a New Hampshire newspaper publisher, who had urged Ike to accept a draft call. Though it took him 790 words more than General William Tecumseh Sherman, Ike was just as unequivocal. He wrote: "My decision to remove myself completely from the political scene is definite and positive. . . . I could not accept nomination even under the remote circumstance that it were tendered me."

Why had he waited so long to say it? For two reasons, Eisenhower explained. One was the fear that "such an expression would smack of effrontery." The other was "that concept of duty to country which calls upon every good citizen to place no limitations upon his readiness to serve in any designated capacity."

But now Eisenhower was convinced that "unless an individual feels some inner compulsion and special qualifications to enter the political arena, which I do not, a refusal to do so involves no violation of the highest standards of devotion to duty. . . . It would seem almost superfluous for me to add that as long as I live I shall hold myself in instant readiness to respond to any call by the Government to military duty."

Confusion. The announcement threw Eisenhower's mushrooming supporters into instant confusion.* In Manhattan, the national headquarters of the Draft Eisenhower League retired to think things over. In Chicago the news arrived just in time to interrupt a press conference announcing the merger of two Eisenhower clubs.

The first instinct of most Eisenhower backers was simply not to believe it. But Newsman Roy Roberts, an early Eisenhower booster who had predicted Ike's withdrawal just two days before, soon put a stop to such wishful thinking. In a Page One story in his Kansas City Star, he wrote: "Too many didn't believe it when Ike Eisenhower said he didn't want to be President. He didn't, and doesn't. He wasn't politicking or trying to egg on the demand."

Roberts was also one of the first to try to explain why Ike had done it: "Innately, he felt his career already had reached a climax when he received the surrender of the Hitler armies in Europe. . . . Anything after that, even the presidency, would be anticlimactic."

Capitulation. No doubt that was one of the reasons. There were, just as certainly, some others: a reluctance to electioneer against his commander-in-chief, an unwillingness to part company with his old mentor George Marshall, a distaste for the roughhouse of campaign politics. From the outset, Eisenhower's closest friends had been convinced that he would accept the nomination only if it came to him as it had come to Washington--unsought. It had become clear that that was impossible. At last week's meeting of the Republican National Committee in Washington, not one professional said he was for Eisenhower. But the best reason of all seemed to be the one that Eisenhower himself gave. As he pointed out in his letter (in words that sounded like a paraphrase of George Marshall's own convictions), generals in politics were bad for the nation and bad for the Army.

Thirty-six hours after the announcement, the Draft Eisenhower League finally gave in. National Chairman Stuart Scheftel resigned and asked all state chapters to disband. Six other members of the league's national board swung their support to Harold Stassen. Around Feb. 15, Eisenhower was expected to leave the War Department, as planned, and move on to the presidency of Columbia University.

Jubilance. Such had been Eisenhower's edge in the presidential race that all other candidates of both parties were jubilant. Candidate Stassen was encouraged enough to challenge Bob Taft in his own Ohio primary. Deweymen, who had privately feared Eisenhower more than any other rival, breathed relief and renewed confidence. So did Taftmen, more secure than ever in the affections of the party regulars.

With Eisenhower out of the way, the long-talked-about Taft-Dewey deadlock became a real possibility. Thus the chances of the dark horses grew brighter every moment. Last week there was a sudden new interest in Michigan's Arthur Vandenberg, who had tried to take himself out of the race but who had steadily been building up prestige for himself and his party.

But the most jubilant candidate of all last week was Harry Truman. Not only did Eisenhower's withdrawal remove his most popular opponent. In high good humor he let it be known that he would not have minded another month's delay in the announcement, while GOPsters wrangled among themselves. Harry Truman was convinced that Eisenhower had helped him a lot more than Wallace had hurt him.

* Coronet magazine was even more confused. The day after Ike bowed out, radio stations were still booming out transcribed commercials for its February lead story: "Why I Like Eisenhower for President," by ex-Naval Aide Harry C. (My Three Years with Eisenhower) Butcher.

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