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                                                                                January 5, 1962

Man of the Year:John Fitzgerald Kennedy

A Way with the People



     The taste of victory was fresh and sweet to John Fitzgerald
Kennedy. Just about a year ago, he sat in the drawing room of his
Georgetown home and spoke breezily about the office he would
assume. "Sure it's a big job," he said. "But I don't know anybody
who can do it any better than I can. I'm going to be in it for
four years. It isn't going to be so bad. you've got time to think
-- and besides, the pay is pretty good."

     One year later, on a cool, grey day, the 35th President of
the United States sat at his desk in the oval office of the White
House and discussed the same subject. "This job is interesting,"
he said in that combination of Irish slur and broad Bostonese
that has become immediately identifiable on all the world's
radios, "but the possibilities for trouble are unlimited. It
represents a chance to exercise your judgment on matters of
importance. It takes a lot of thought and effort. It's been a
tough first year, but then they're all going to be tough."

     The words, not particularly memorable, might have come from
any of a thousand thoughtful executives after a year on the job.
But here they were spoken by the still-young executive in the
world's biggest job, and they showed the difference in attitude
and tone that twelve months in the White House have worked on
John F. Kennedy.

     Jack Kennedy -- Man of the Year for 1961 -- had passionately
sought the presidency. The closeness of his victory did not
disturb him; he took over the office with a youth-can-do-anything
sort of self-confidence. He learned better; but learn he did. And
in so doing he not only made 1961 the most endlessly interesting
and exciting presidential year within recent memory; he also made
the process of his growing up to be President a saving factor for
the U.S. in the cold war.

     Kennedy has always had a way with the people -- a presence
that fits many moods, a style that swings with grace from high
formality to almost prankish casualness, a quick charm, the
patience to listen, a sure social touch, an interest in knowledge
and a greed for facts, a zest for play matched by a passion for
work. Today his personal popularity compares favorably with such
popular heroes as Franklin Roosevelt and Dwight Eisenhower.

     During 1961, Kennedy suffered some major setbacks, including
one, in Cuba, that might have ruined some Presidents. (Richard
Nixon has said: "If I had been responsible for failing to make a
critical decision on the Cuban business which would have brought
victory, I would have been impeached.") Yet, his popularity has
remained consistently high, seemingly unaffected by his
vicissitudes. In the latest Gallup poll, 78% of the American
people said that they approved of the way he is doing his job.
But personal popularity, as Kennedy well knows, is not always
reflected in widespread support of public policy. To translate
popularity into support is the job of the politician -- and the
job to which Kennedy has come increasingly to devote his time and
energy.

     In many of the most visible ways, Kennedy has been little
changed by the presidency. In the White House, he still fidgets
around, prowling the corridors and offices, putting his feet on
his chair, pulling up his socks, tapping his teeth, adjusting and
readjusting the papers on his desk, occasionally answering his
own telephone or making his own telephone calls. It used to be
that the telephone salutation, "This is Jack," would bring the
instinctive question, "Jack who?" But no longer. Now everyone in
Washington knows who Jack is: he is the man at the other end of
the line.

     At 44, Kennedy's weight remains steady at 175 lbs. He has
few more grey hairs or wrinkles of care than when he took office
-- but he somehow looks older and more mature. Indeed he is older
-- but in a way that the mere month-by-month passage of time
could not have made him.

     Less Than Omnipotent. Kennedy has come to realize that
national and international issues look much different from the
President's chair than from a candidate's rostrum. There are
fewer certainties, and far more complexities. "We must face
problems which do not lend themselves to easy, quick or permanent
solutions," he said recently in Seattle. "And we must face the
fact that the U.S. is neither omnipotent nor omniscient, and that
we cannot right every wrong or reverse each adversity, and that
therefore there cannot be an American solution for every world
problem."

     That sober view of the limitations of power and authority is
far removed from Kennedy's campaign oratory, which often seemed
to suggest that any problem could be solved if only enough vim
and vigor were brought to bear on it. Kennedy promised a "New
Frontier" to "get America moving again." He soon found that it
was tough enough just to keep the old problems from getting out
of hand.

     Before he came to the White House, Kennedy chose as his
model the Franklin Delano Roosevelt of the New Deal years. He
expressed admiration for Roosevelt's ability to "do" things and
to "get things done," even adopted some of F.D.R.'s speech
mannerisms (the cocked head, allusions to historical fact).
Kennedy advisers talked about a Rooseveltian 100 days of dramatic
success with Congress. But before the azaleas had bloomed in the
White House garden the Roosevelt image went by the boards -- and
so did the 100-day notion. "This period," says Kennedy today,
with just a shade of irritation, "is entirely different from
Franklin Roosevelt's day. Everyone says that Roosevelt did this
and that, why don't I?"

     Changed Positives. Kennedy has always been a man of positive
ideas -- but some of the positives have changed. During the 1960
campaign, he effectively used the charge that U.S. prestige had
plummeted during Dwight Eisenhower's Administration. In fact, the
U.S. had under Ike, and retains under Kennedy, a high reservoir
of good will in the free world -- as Kennedy saw for himself in
his triumphal trips to London, Paris and, more recently Latin
America. During the presidential campaign, Kennedy also made much
of the "missile gap" between the U.S. and the Soviet Union;
within a few weeks after he took office, the missile gap somehow
seemed to disappear (although the President was publicly annoyed
at Defense Secretary Robert McNamara for saying as much at a news
briefing. Kennedy himself said: "In terms of total military
strength, the U.S. would not trade places with any nation on
earth."

     As an amateur historian, Kennedy might have realized that no
new President starts out with a blank book to be filled with
fresh-ink policies. The reach of current history is such that any
President's program becomes a continuing part of national
policy; that policy may be altered, but it can rarely be fully
reversed. When Kennedy first came to the White House, he resented
his inheritance, constantly referred to problems "not of our own
making." But now those old problems tend to become "our
problems," and the fact that the world is in trouble seems to
Kennedy less Dwight Eisenhower's fault than he once suspected. At
a recent meeting of the National Security Council, Kennedy opened
a folder filled with briefs of U.S. problems. "Now, let's see,"
he said. "Did we inherit these, or are these our own?" Now,
Kennedy can even joke to friends: "I had plenty of problems when
I came in. But wait until the fellow who follows me sees what he
will inherit."

     Key to Power. Behind such subtle, sometimes facetiously
stated, changes of attitude lies the central story of a U.S.
President coming of age. Personality is a key to the use of
presidential power, and John Kennedy in 1961 passed through three
distinct phases of presidential personality. First, there was the
cocksure new man in office. Then, after the disastrous, U.S.-
backed invasion of Cuba (in White House circles, B.C. still means
Before Cuba), came disillusionment. Finally, in the year's last
months, came a return of confidence -- but of a wiser, more
mature kind that had been tempered by the bitter lessons of
experience.

     Kennedy's inaugural address, delivered under a brilliant sun
after a night of wild snowstorm, rang with eloquence and the hope
born of confidence. "Let the word go forth from this time and
place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to
a new generation of Americans . . . In the long history of the
world, only a few generations have been granted the role of
defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink
from this responsibility -- I welcome it."

     Man of Destiny. Such was Kennedy's performance during the
inauguration ceremonies that the late Sam Rayburn was moved to
remark: "He's a man of destiny." Poet Robert Frost, then 86,
obviously thought so, too, and his proud reading of one of his
poems at the inaugural set a tone of expectation. After a few
weeks in the Presidency, Kennedy told a friend: "This is a damned
good job." He was fascinated by the perquisites of his office and
his sudden access to the deepest secrets of government. He
explored the White House, poked his head into offices, asked
secretaries how they were getting along. He propped up pictures
of his wife and children in office wall niches, while Jackie
rummaged through the cellar and attic, charmed with the treasures
she found there and already determined to make the White House
into a "museum of our country's heritage."

     The Kennedy "style" came like a hurricane. For a while, the
problems of the world seemed less important than what parties the
Kennedys went to, what hairdo Jackie wore. Seldom, perhaps never,
has any President had such thorough exposure in so short a time.
At one point, Theodore Sorensen, Kennedy's special counsel,
reminded the president of Kennedy's old campaign line: that he
was tired of getting up every morning and reading what Khrushchev
and Castro were doing; instead, he wanted to read what the
President of the U.S. was doing. Replied Kennedy: "That's so, and
I've been hearing some criticism about it. People are saying that
they are tired of getting up every morning and reading what
Kennedy is doing. They want to read what Khrushchev and Castro
are doing."

     First Realization. On the home front realization came
quickly to Jack Kennedy that not everything was going to come up
roses. The 87th Congress had convened with lopsided Democratic
majorities -- but those majorities were deceptive, particularly
in the House of Representatives where conservative Democrats
(mostly from the South) and Republicans saw Kennedy's squeaky win
over Dick Nixon as less than a national mandate. The first major
fight in Congress was over the Kennedy Administration's all-out
effort to liberalize the House Rules Committee. The resolution
carried by a scant five votes -- and right then and there
President Kennedy, a veteran vote counter, concluded that his
domestic programs were in for trouble.

     He was absolutely right. During the year, in 66 messages to
Capitol Hill, the President made 355 specific legislative
requests. Of those, the Congress approved 172. In general, the
Congress gave the President almost everything he wanted in the
field of national security. After desperate fights, it approved
Kennedy Administration requests for the biggest housing bill in
history, an increased minimum wage and new federal highway
financing. But such pet Kennedy programs as aid to education and
medical care for the elderly never even came to House votes. And
in one of the bitterest blows of all President Kennedy got for
his vital foreign aid a half-loaf that did not meet his urgent
demands for long-term borrowing authority.

     Naive Request. In foreign affairs, understanding of the
difficulties came more slowly to the President. At the outset
Kennedy naively conveyed a request for a six-month moratorium on
Communist troublemaking while the new Administration got its
house in order. In response, Communist guerrillas began gobbling
even more hungrily at faraway Laos. Russian Foreign Minister
Andrei Gromyko came to the White House to sound out the new
President. In the Rose Garden, Kennedy sternly warned Gromyko of
the danger of pushing the U.S. too far in a situation where its
prestige was at stake. Gromyko listened -- and the guerrillas
kept advancing in Laos. As the situation worsened, Kennedy went
on national TV at a press conference to declare that a Communist
takeover in Laos would "quite obviously affect the security of
the U.S."

     The plain implication of Kennedy's statement was that the
U.S. would send arms and, if necessary, troops to defend the
security that had been equated with its own. But nothing could
have been further from Kennedy's intention, and only a few days
later State Department officials and White House aides began
downgrading the importance of Laos. Kennedy himself said, in a
qualification that counted Laos out: "We can only defend the
freedom of those who are ready to defend themselves." Actually,
the new President had been caught in a talk-tough bluff aimed, at
best, at achieving a pallid, precarious truce in Laos.

     But Laos did not diminish Jack Kennedy's self-confidence.
Neither did the space flight of Russia's Yuri Gagarin. To that,
Kennedy reacted in a manner characteristic of his first months in
the White House. First he called in his space experts, demanded
that they come up with answers about when, how and at what cost
the U.S. could catch up with the U.S.S.R. in man-in-space
prowess. "I don't care where you get the answers," said Kennedy.
"If the janitor over there can tell us, ask him." Next Kennedy
appeared before the Congress to deliver an unusual midyear State
of the Union message. He asked for a $9 billion program to put a
man on the moon by 1971, and he placed that request, in a manner
smacking more of Hollywood and Vine than of 1600 Pennsylvania
Avenue, close to the top of the U.S. cold war priority list.

     Dark Night. Then there was Cuba. It was a tragedy, but if
nothing else it served the function of a hickory stick in the
presidential education of John Kennedy. Kennedy had inherited the
unpleasant fact of Communist Fidel Castro's rule over an enclave
within 90 miles of U.S. shores. He also inherited from Dwight
Eisenhower a specific plan for the U.S. to back, with air cover
and logistical support, an anti-Castro invasion of Cuba by
Cubans. But Kennedy decreed that the U.S. should not provide some
of the necessary ingredients to that plan -- such as air cover by
U.S. planes. The result was disaster at the Bay of Pigs.

     On the night when the Cuba failure became apparent, the
scene at the White House was memorable. President Kennedy,
doffing the white tie and tails he had worn to a legislative
reception, returned to the Executive Wing while the unhappy news
was pouring in. At 2:30 a.m., orders were given to the State
Department's Latin American expert, Adolf Berle Jr., and White
House Aide Arthur Schlesinger Jr. to fly to Miami to confer with
anti-Castro Cuban invasion leaders. Black coffee was being rushed
about. Berle (since eased out of his State Department office)
stood around in an overcoat complaining of the cold. Schlesinger
was haggard and unshaven. Finally, Berle and Schlesinger left,
and so did most others of the White House coterie. Abruptly,
President Kennedy walked out into the White House Rose Garden.
For 45 minutes he stayed alone, thinking.

     Cuba made the first dent in John Kennedy's self-confidence.
When the invasion first began to go sour, the President called
his brother, Attorney General Robert Kennedy, who was making a
speech in Williamsburg, Va., at the time. "Why don't you come
back," said Jack, "and let's discuss it." Bobby flew back and, in
the midst of crisis, his was the profile pictured against the
late-burning White House lights. In Cuba's immediate aftermath,
it was Bobby who moved into the White House, spearheaded an
investigation of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, became a
moving spirit at National Security Council meetings.

     At the moment of nadir in the Cuba disaster, a White House
aide watched President Kennedy and said: "This is the first time
Jack Kennedy ever lost anything." The fact of defeat was jolting,
and the President showed it. In the weeks that followed, he
seemed unsure of himself and willing to attempt almost anything
that, by any conceivable stretch of the imagination, might recoup
the B.C. position. He even got himself involved in the ill-
advised attempt to trade U.S. tractors off for captured Cuban
rebels.

     On to Vienna. But it is in the nature of Kennedy to strike
when things seem worst. It was in that sense that after Cuba the
President -- despite campaign criticism of summitry -- decided to
go to Vienna to meet Nikita Khrushchev. He hoped, he said, to
size up Khrushchev and to warn him against miscalculating U.S.
determination in the cold war. He knew beforehand that Khrushchev
was tough -- but only at Vienna did he discover how tough. "The
difficulty of reaching accord was dramatized in those two days,"
he says today. There was no shouting or shoe banging, but the
meeting was grim. At one point Kennedy noted a medal on
Khrushchev's chest and asked what it was. When Khrushchev
explained that it was for the Lenin Peace Prize, Kennedy coldly
replied: "I hope you keep it."

     Kennedy managed to wangle out of Khrushchev a paper
agreement on the need for an "effective cease-fire" in Laos and
for a neutral and independent Laos (Communist guerrillas
nonetheless continued to violate the cease-fire), but the two got
nowhere on other matters. Then Kennedy insisted on a last,
unscheduled session with Khrushchev. "We're not going on time,"
he snapped to his staff. "I'm not going to leave until I know
more." He found out more. At that final session Khrushchev
growled that his decision to sign a peace treaty with East
Germany by the end of December was "firm" and "irrevocable." "If
that is true," replied Kennedy, "it is going to be a cold
winter."

     High over the Atlantic Ocean, flying back to the U.S. the
next night, John Kennedy sat in his shorts, surrounded by his key
aides. He was dead tired; his eyes were red and watery; he
throbbed with the ache of a back injury that the nation did not
yet know about but that had forced him to endure agonies on his
European trip. Several times he stared down at his feet, shook
his head and muttered how unbending Khrushchev had been. He
hugged his bare legs and wondered what would come next.

     Aides in the White House agree that August and September
were the most critical months so far in the personal and
political life of John Kennedy. The first thing that Kennedy did
when he got back to the White House was to call for an estimate
of the number of Americans who might die in an atomic war; it was
70 million. Kennedy and those close to him felt that war was a
very real possibility. The President became moody, withdrawn,
often fell into deep thought in the midst of festive occasions
with family and friends. He sat up late in the White House and
talked about war. To one intimate associate he said: "It really
doesn't matter as far as you and I are concerned. What really
matters is all the children."

     But at some point, in some way, the President passed through
his period of personal crisis. He decided that words could be
effective only when backed by the plain willingness to perform
deeds. "We do not want to fight," he told the U.S., "but we have
fought before. We cannot and will not permit the Communists to
drive us out of Berlin, either gradually or by force."

     Kennedy had uttered such bold words before -- but this time
he intended to support them with action. The Communist Wall in
Berlin caught the U.S. by surprise, and President Kennedy had no
ready response. "There's no reason why we should do everything,"
he said. But he did decide, even if it meant war, to insist upon
the maintenance of three basic Allied rights in Berlin: 1) the
presence of Allied forces, 2) access to Berlin, and 3) a free and
viable city as part of West Germany.

     Turning Point. It was to demonstrate that determination in
the only language that Communism can understand that Kennedy
ordered an armored U.S. troop convoy to travel the Autobahn from
West Germany through East German territory to West Berlin. The
journey made for some dramatic headlines, but its real
significance was somehow diluted by the flood of international
crises. Kennedy well recognized that if the convoy were stopped,
the shooting might start. "Talking to Kennedy was like talking to
a statue," recalls a White House aide. "There was the feeling
that this mission could very well escalate into shooting before
morning."

     The battle group was to be sent along the Autobahn in
serials of 60 trucks each. General Bruce Clarke, Commander in
Chief, U.S. Army, Europe, set up headquarters in the woods about
one-half mile from Helmstedt. He was in near-instant
communication with the White House. President Kennedy had
postponed a weekend trip to Cape Cod; his military aide, Army
Major General Ted Clifton, was ordered to remain on duty all
night in case of trouble, Kennedy himself stayed up until
midnight, then turned in. When he arose at 8 a.m., he was told
that the convoy's first group had passed safely through the gate
into West Berlin.

     Thus, the incident itself did not amount to much, but it was
a turning point in the presidential year. For the first time
Kennedy had backed up his urgent words with urgent action -- and
was psychologically ready for more. Gone was the old feeling of
complete cockiness. Gone too was that period of doubt -- which
had been so devastating to a man who had never before known
doubt.

     From the beginning of his Administration, Kennedy had been
concerned about establishing "credibility" with Khrushchev. But,
in retrospect, it was not until after the Autobahn voyage that
Khrushchev began to believe that the new U.S. President might
really back up his brave words with daring deeds. Given that
inch, Kennedy began to make mileage.

     The U.S. continued building up its nuclear and conventional
forces to strengthen its military might around the world. The
Army stated raising its strength from eleven to a planned 16
combat divisions, got a badly needed infusion of modern
equipment. Draft calls were increased, and some 156,000
reservists and National Guardsmen were called to active duty
(some of them have been screaming ever since). Down to the
smallest detail, Kennedy himself discussed ways in which the U.S.
might combat Communist guerrillas in strategic areas of the
earth. In a meeting with military leaders to decide which weapons
ought to be sent to pro-Western forces in Southeast Asia, he
personally called for specimens of several. He tried the new M-
14, then the new Armalite. Then he hefted the old, World War II
carbine and said: "You know, I like the old carbine. You aren't
going to see a guy 500 yards in the jungle."

     Kennedy once again conferred with Gromyko in the White House
to discuss East-West tensions, and this time the President made
it clear that he was through with offering U.S. compromises in
return for continuing Russian intransigence. Said Kennedy: "You
have offered to trade us an apple for an orchard. We don't do
that in this country." Before long, diplomatic pouches were
bringing word back that Khrushchev now felt that his young
American antagonist might be much more than a pup. In evidence
Khrushchev amid belligerent yowlings, backed away from his year-
end deadline about the settlement, forced or otherwise, of the
Berlin question.

     The Image. Slight and temporary though it may have been, the
relaxation that Kennedy won in the tensions about Berlin gave him
a chance to perfect and polish his image as a U.S. political
leader. Part of that image was, and is, the youth, vigor and
attractiveness of the Kennedy family. Few diplomats have scored
more triumphs than Jacqueline Kennedy in her year as the nation's
First Lady. She has charmed Britain's Macmillan, France's
De Gaulle, Germany's Adenauer and, for that matter, Khrushchev
himself (said Khrushchev of Jackie's gown: "It's beautiful!").
"Jackie wants to be as great a First Lady in her own right as
Jack wants to be a great President," says a friend. Toward that
end, Jackie has worked hard and effectively. She has done over
the White House with unexceptionable taste. She has introduced
into the White House, for the first time in years, good food,
great music, Shakespeare, warmth and informality -- all along
with a deep respect for American tradition. In so doing, she has
managed to stay very much herself.

     Jackie Kennedy refuses to be falsely humble. She wore her
apricot dress and coat of silk and linen to speak to farmers in a
Venezuelan barnyard. She declines to honor all the petty requests
that pour into the White House, ignores most of the President's
political rallies, turns down invitations from women's groups who
are constantly nagging her for an appearance. She water-skis,
rides, plays golf, and yet remains an attentive mother to her
children.

     "Who's Crying?" The Kennedys try to shield Daughter Caroline
from too much publicity. But despite all her parents efforts,
Caroline is a real Kennedy: she makes news. She came clutching
her mother's shoes into a presidential press conference at Palm
Beach. Carefully rehearsed, she was on hand to proffer a fresh
rose to an enchanted Nehru at Newport. Once, Kennedy had to break
off a TV filming to go and wipe Caroline's offstage tears ("Who's
crying in this house?" he demanded). Again the President of the
U.S., spending a weekend at Glen Ora, was heard to say
impatiently: "Hurry up, Caroline. I want to use the phone."

     Even beyond his immediate household circle, the President
remains a family man. A brother, sisters and brothers-in-law have
flocked to Washington in convenient concentration, all willing to
help the President with his work and eager to help him relax
after hours. Bobby is still Kennedy's right-hand man. Sargent
Shriver Jr. -- Eunice Kennedy's husband -- is head of the Peace
Corps. Stephen Smith -- Jean Kennedy's husband -- is special
assistant to the head of the White House "Crisis Center." Actor
Peter Lawford -- Pat Kennedy's husband -- helped pay off
Democratic debts by co-producing an inaugural extravaganza, still
shows up at Kennedy conclaves, sometimes with the Hollywood Rat
Pack in tow. Until he suffered a stroke last month, Father Joe
was in regular touch with the President, offering encouragement
and loyalty. And it was Multimillionaire Joe who negotiated the
movie contract for Robert Donovan's book on Kennedy's wartime
days, PT 109. It came to a tidy $150,000 -- some $2,500 for each
of the old PT crew members or their widows and $120,000 for
Donovan.

     The Treatment. Whether with his family, at a casual dinner
with friends, or working among his trusted aides, Kennedy has one
overwhelming interest that shapes all his actions: politics. By
instinct and training, he is a political creature who works 25
hours a day at politics.

     Kennedy's front-line political weapon is his own power of
political persuasion. He courts Congressmen, inviting them to the
White House for intimate social gatherings, calling them on the
telephone to hash over old times on the Hill, remembering their
birthdays with personal notes, carrying a tiny pad on which to
jot down their political problems.

     Where Harry Truman delighted in denouncing "special
interest" groups, Kennedy tries to win them over. He places great
emphasis on the power of the press, and no other U.S. President
has granted so many private interviews to journalists of many
levels. It goes without saying that organized labor is friendly
to Democrat Kennedy, but the President has also gone all-out to
relieve big business of its suspicions about his Administration.
He has sent his economic advisers all over the country to preach
that big business is a respected Administration partner, slipped
such business leaders as U.S. Steel Chairman Roger Blough into
the White House for long, earnest chats.

     Kennedy's persuasive personality has also been turned on
foreign dignitaries. The President has received 30 chiefs of
state and heads of government since his inauguration, sent most
of them away grateful for the treatment they received and
impressed by Kennedy's broad knowledge and willingness to listen
to their problems. Among his Western Allies, Kennedy gets along
splendidly with Britain's Harold Macmillan. Germany's Chancellor
Konrad Adenauer recently left the White House declaring: "I've
never left this house feeling better." Even France's difficult
Charles de Gaulle trusts and respects Kennedy -- up to a point.
From De Gaulle aides after Kennedy's spring trip to Paris came
word of a characteristic De Gaulle declaration. In his long
lifetime, said De Gaulle, he had met only two real statesmen:
Adenauer and Kennedy. But Adenauer was too old, he said, and
Kennedy was too young.

     Where persuasion fails, Kennedy is perfectly willing to use
power -- in his own way. In the early days of his Administration,
he realized that he had picked the wrong man for Under Secretary
of State. Chester Bowles, who was supposed to be tending to
administrative work in the State Department, was instead obsessed
with big-think solutions to world problems; beyond that, Bowles
committed the ultimate sin of disloyalty by letting it be known,
after the fact, that he had been against the Cuba venture all
along. Kennedy decided to get Bowles out. He invited Bowles down
for a swim in the White House pool. Then the two had lunch while
Kennedy explained that he had a new job, outside Washington, in
mind for Bowles. Bowles not only refused to bite at Kennedy's
bait, but went out and stirred up protests among his cultist
liberal following. In the face of a fuss, Jack Kennedy backed
away -- but anyone who knew him also knew that it would not be
for long. Last November, when nobody was looking, he shifted
Bowles into a high-sounding but peripheral job as a presidential
adviser, tossed in nearly a dozen other White House and State
Department switches for good measure -- and managed it all with
hardly a murmur of complaint from anyone.

     Crab Grass & Berets. In the White House, Kennedy is still a
man in near-perpetual motion, interested in everything that goes
on about him and casual enough to take a hand in anything that
interests him. Amid his other duties, he had time to notice crab
grass on the White House lawn and order it removed, and to order
the Army's Special Forces to put back on the green berets that
had earlier been banned ("They need something to make them
distinctive"). When he wanted a haircut a few weeks ago after a
hard day of work, he simply had his secretary summon a barber to
his White House office. There, the barber neatly spread a white
cloth in front of the presidential desk, lifted a chair onto the
cloth and began snipping away. The President of the U.S. tilted
back his chair, picked up his afternoon paper, and smiled
happily. "Now," he said, "I'm going to read Doris Fleeson."

     Kennedy is a buff for physical fitness for himself and
others, at one point suggested that his aides all lose at least
five pounds -- and that portly Press Secretary Pierre Salinger
lose a good deal more. He swims twice a day in the heated White
House pool, has taken up a rigorous series of calisthenics under
the direction of New York University's Dr. Hans Kraus to help his
ailing back. He does his nip-ups in the White House gym, in his
bedroom, even on board the big presidential jet while flying off
to important meetings.

     The Uncertain Art. Kennedy exercises his intellect by
demanding diverse position papers on many topics; he relaxes it
by letting his mind range over history and politics. But for
getting work done, he has come more and more to depend on the
political pros and the able technicians: Brother Bobby, Defense's
McNamara, State's Dean Rusk, Treasury's Douglas Dillon and
Speechwriter Ted Sorensen. Kennedy's greatest respect is reserved
for men who get things done, rather than those who just think
about them. "We always need more men of ability who can do
things," he says. "We need people with good judgment. We have a
lot. But we never have enough." He has nothing but scorn for
academicians who offer criticism without an alternate course of
action. "Where does he sit?" snapped Kennedy in reaction to one
scholarly critic. "At that university, not here where decisions
have to be made."

     John Kennedy is acutely aware that he, and he alone, sits
where the decisions have to be made -- and there are plenty yet
to be made. Berlin remains a city of chronic crisis, and Kennedy
faces choices far harder than that of sending fresh troops down
the Autobahn. He has yet to get down to making the final but
necessary decision to go ahead with nuclear testing in the
atmosphere. Other problems lie ahead in Southeast Asia, in
Congress, in NATO, in the United Nations. With full realization
of what he faces, and the experience of the year behind, Kennedy
speaks today of the "uncertainties" of statecraft. "You can't be
sure," he says. "It's not science. It is an uncertain art."

     In the spirit of history that so moved him, Kennedy last
week, on the 105th anniversary of Woodrow Wilson's birthday,
hailed the 28th U.S. President as the "shaper of the first
working plan for international cooperation among all peoples of
the world. 'What we seek,' Wilson said, 'is the reign of law,
based upon the consent of the governed and sustained by the
organized opinion of mankind.' Every subsequent effort to create
a stable world order has gone back for inspiration to his efforts
and has owed much to his vision." The Wilson papers now being
prepared for publication, said Kennedy, will serve as a reminder
that "the twentieth century has not been lacking in the highest
quality of leadership."

     To that quality of leadership John Kennedy aspires with all
the intense ambition that he brought to winning the presidency.
"Before my term has ended," he said in his State of the Union
message last January, "we shall have to test anew whether a
nation organized and governed such as ours can endure." In the
years since Wilson, Americans and their Presidents have
vanquished many threats from those who would abolish the "consent
of the governed." But the test that faces the youngest elected
and the most vigorous President of the 20th century -- and all
those who live under his leadership -- is far greater: to meet
and battle, in a time of great national peril, the marauding
forces of Communism on every front in every part of the world. In
his first year as President, John Fitzgerald Kennedy showed
qualities that have made him a promising leader in that battle.
Those same qualities, if developed further, may yet make him a
great President.