False Alarm

One afternoon last week, just a few hours before the opening of the world security conference in San Francisco, President Harry Truman grabbed his mouse-colored fedora, rushed out of the White House to a waiting limousine. An aide called airily to newsmen: "We're going to the Pentagon, if you want to come along." Three reporters, representing the press associations, followed.

But at the Pentagon, the newsmen found they could not follow the President so easily. He was whisked immediately to the super-secret second-floor communications room, which has direct radio-telephone connections to London, SHAEF, and to field operations. Into the room also went General Marshall, Admirals King and Leahy, Undersecretary of State Joseph C. Grew, and War Secretary Stimson. The conference lasted an hour and 40 minutes. When it was over, President Truman, now aware of the sensational appearance of his trip, seemed to regret that newsmen had been notified. But they had sent bulletins long before.

For two days, official Washington attempted to play down the conference. At his press conference, Secretary Stimson twinkled to reporters: "You thought you saw the President [at the Pentagon] when you only saw his astral body." Yet the rankest cub reporter knew that something big was cooking, and the rumors began, to fly. And not all the rumors were wild: some of the information came from unquestionably well-informed--although unnamed--sources. The hottest report: Heinrich Himmler had offered to surrender unconditionally to the U.S. and Great Britain.

Day of Hope. Such was the situation on the morning of April 28, a day which took its place in history alongside Nov. 7, 1918 as a day of false hopes. On this morning Winston Churchill seemed almost to confirm the report of unconditional surrender by announcing that Nazi Germany would have to surrender to all three of the Big Three. A White House secretary purred: "This Government has nothing to say." But the rumors flew thicker & faster. Said one report out of Washington: fighting had actually stopped in Europe.

Then, at 7:55 p.m. (E.W.T.), the Associated Press sent a bulletin from San Francisco: "Germany has surrendered. . . [says] a high American official." Radio newscasters pounced on the flash and boosted it across the land. The story, by A.P.'s reliable Jack Bell, went on to say that the surrender was actually to have been announced earlier, but was unavoidably delayed.

Almost at the same time, on the floor of the San Francisco conference, Chilean Delegate Joaquin Fernandez y Fernandez strode in, waving a copy of the Call-Bulletin with the screamer: NAZIS QUIT. The delegates, who had been listening to a translation of a speech in Spanish, rose and clapped. So did Comrade Molotov, who was presiding.

Hearing this scene described over his radio, many a U.S. listener jumped from his chair; a few started celebrating. Yet the whole incident might have passed as just another rumor had it not been for what happened next at the White House.

About V-E Day. There Steve Early, who seemed destined to handle at least one more big newsbreak before he quit, told hastily gathering newsmen to stand by. The President, he said, is preparing a proclamation. "Will it be about V-E day?" he was asked. "Not exactly," he answered, "but something like it." Radiomen were told to hook up their microphones at the White House for the reading of the proclamation.

Few doubted that the surrender would soon be official. Steve Early quieted the impatient newsmen. The President, he said, was just putting the finishing touches on the document. The majority of people still kept their fingers crossed. But in many a city, newspaper editors called for the biggest type, ordered an extra.

The nation waited. In a few cities, notably Chicago and San Francisco, downtown celebrations had already begun. In a New York nightclub, the manager distributed confetti and streamers. Radio newscasters were tense. If the report were true--and the White House seemed about to confirm it--this would be the biggest Saturday night of the war.

The Awful Truth. An hour and a half after the first A. P. bulletin from San Francisco, the White House newsmen were ushered in to the President. In four crisp sentences, Harry Truman blew the surrender report sky high. He said he had checked it with General Eisenhower; it had "no foundation."

As the street crowds in Chicago, San Francisco and New York broke up, as the people flicked off their radios, the search for a goat began. From San Francisco, A.P. revealed that the unnamed "high official" quoted in its report was Senator Tom Connally, chairman of the Foreign

Relations Committee. Red-faced and nervous, Tom Connally faced newsmen again, said he had based his remarks "just on what you all know," but insisted that surrender was still imminent.

Many in the U.S. believed that it was. But they began to wonder why their President had fallen for the false surrender report. Should not he, of all people, have known exactly whether or not surrender had been achieved? Why did he, the Commander in Chief, have to call General Eisenhower, as he said he did, in order to check the report?

One incident of the evening, had it been known to newsmen, might have saved much of the wild speculation. When the A.P.'s bulletin came in, General George Catlett Marshall was dining with Undersecretary Grew at Washington's famed, unobtrusive Alibi Club. Joe Grew promptly rose from the table, rushed to the State Department. But General Marshall went right on with his dinner.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.