When Eisenhower's father died
"His finest monument is his reputation."
Writing elsewhere
I reviewed Crack-Up Capitalism by Quinn Slobodian for CapX.
The war had not been going well for the Allies. The Axis had made many advances and Allied forces were spread thinly across the world. Inside the US War Office, the argument was being made that a concentrated effort to reinvade France was necessary for victory. The British agreed, at first. They would later prioritise North Africa, a decision Roosevelt supported. That was the hinge on which the war turned. “Before El Alamein we never had a victory,” Churchill later wrote, “afterwards we never had a defeat.”
Dwight Eisenhower, at this time the Assistant Chief of Staff in the war department, was crucial to this stage of the war. He argued strongly in favour of reinvading France, at a time when the received wisdom wasn’t necessarily in favour of such a plan. He was an important part of the team implementing military strategy to defend the Philippines, as he had served there for many years before the war broke out. And his memos to General Marshall were a key part of persuading Roosevelt of the need to invade Europe. So in March 1942 he was a busy man, working all day, seven days a week.
In amongst the chaos, Eisenhower’s father died. Reading his war papers there comes a startling moment. Suddenly all the official talk and the curt tone of war gives way to a moment of deep personal sadness. Eisenhower took almost no rest from his work. The day after it happened he left work early—at 7.30pm. The next day, the day of the funeral, he cleared his schedule for half an hour to gather his thoughts. The war didn’t stop though, so neither did Ike.
I’ll have more to say about Eisenhower in my book. He’s a classic late bloomer—without the war, you might never have heard of him. For now, let me leave you with the two diary entries he made about his father. They show something significant about what Ike valued as a military commander—and his attitude to leadership. There’s something of the tone of Marcus Aurelius in these entries: Eisenhower is steeling himself, admonishing himself into discipline when he knows there is no other option.
Perhaps the most moving line is this: “His finest monument is his reputation.”
March 11, 1942
I have felt terribly. I should like so much to be with my Mother these few days. But we’re at war! And war is not soft—it has no time to indulge even the deepest and most sacred emotions. I loved my Dad. I think my Mother the finest person I’ve ever known. She has been the inspiration for Dad’s life, and a true helpmate in every sense of the word.
I’m quitting work now—7.30 p.m. I haven’t the heart to go on tonight.
March 12, 1942
My Father was buried today. I’ve shut off all business and visitors for thirty minutes—to have that much time, by myself, to think of him. He had a full life. He left six boys and, most fortunately for him, Mother survives him. He was not quite 79 years old, but for the past year he has been extremely old physically. Hardened arteries, kidney trouble, etc. He was a just man, well liked well educated, a thinker. He was undemonstrative, quiet, modest, and of exemplary habits—he never used alcohol or tobacco. He was an uncomplaining person in the face of adversity, and such plaudits as were accorded him did not inflate his ego.
His finest monument is his reputation in Abilene and Dickson Co., Kansas. His word has been his bond and accepted as such, his sterling honesty, his insistence on the immediate payment of all debts, his pride in his independence earned him a reputation that has profited all of us boys. Because of it, all central Kansas helped me to secure an appointment to West Point in 1911, and thirty years later, it did the same for my son, John. My only regret is that it was always so difficult to let him know the great depth of my affection for him. David J. Eisenhower 1863-1942
Writing elsewhere
I reviewed Crack-Up Capitalism by Quinn Slobodian for CapX.
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Wow. I did not know this story. Many thanks and looking forward to the book!
That last paragraph is what I could say about my Dad and my appointment to Annapolis, which I did not accept.