"Ros & I . . ."

Even the warmest admirers of Defense Secretary Robert S. McNamara agree that he is something less than the soul of diplomacy. His voice rasps with irritation at slower-witted subordinates; he has cut off soldiers and solons in mid-spiel. But while McNamara has effectively been shaking things up at the Pentagon, another man has effectively been soothing them down. He is Roswell L. Gilpatric, 55, Deputy Secretary of Defense, and by general agreement the most important No. 2 man in any department or agency of the New Frontier.

Last Monday morning, Gilpatric as usual sat at McNamara's side during the weekly meeting with the Pentagon's top brass and civilians. That afternoon he slipped up to Capitol Hill to brief the administrative aides of some Senators and Congressmen on pending defense legislation. Next day Gilpatric accompanied McNamara to a White House policy meeting, that night sat down at an informal dinner with members of Congressman F. Edward Hebert's subcommittee, who had been critical of McNamara's plan to reform the reserves and National Guard. Later in the week, Gilpatric went back to the White House with McNamara for a conference on overseas defense spending as it affects the U.S. gold outflow. Then McNamara took off for a short holiday with his family in Michigan and confidently left the Pentagon in Gilpatric's hands.

Old Hand. In many ways Gilpatric is McNamara's personality opposite--he is socially gregarious and skilled in the ways of handling admirals, generals and politicians. He plays kind cop to McNamara's tough cop--and McNamara recognizes his value. The two have become close friends (of which McNamara, although widely respected, has few in Washington); and the Pentagon has come increasingly to realize that whatever their difference in demeanor, McNamara and Gilpatric think alike on policy matters. Gilpatric speaks and acts in McNamara's name; indeed, many Defense directives are prepared without signature blocks so that either McNamara or Gilpatric can sign. And in his formal meetings, McNamara repeatedly begins a policy statement by saying: "Ros and I think . . ." The son of a lawyer, Gilpatric was born in Brooklyn, waited on tables while attending Hotchkiss, got his bachelor's and law degree from Yale, and worked as a corporation lawyer for the New York firm now known as Cravath, Swaine & Moore.

During World War II, Gilpatric began to learn about the military by working on his clients' defense production problems.

In 1951 Gilpatric became an Assistant Secretary of the Air Force, then Under Secretary. He returned to his law practice in 1953. On the theory that McNamara would need an old hand to help him find his way around the Pentagon, President Kennedy himself picked Gilpatric for the job of Deputy Secretary. McNamara, who on occasion can analyze his own limitations as well as those of others, readily agreed.

Shoveling Snowflakes. Gilpatric regularly shows up in his office adjoining McNamara's suite at 7:30 a.m.--half an hour behind his boss. While McNamara, with an eye on the clock, slashes away at his paper work, Gilpatric sits suavely behind an unlittered desk, almost always has time for some casual talk with a visitor. When McNamara begins to whirl out a blizzard of "snowflakes"--Pentagonese for his single-page directives that often demand prompt action--Gilpatric may help dig out a snowed-under officer by getting an impossible deadline date extended.

But Gilpatric is more than the Pentagon's nice guy. He handles many delicate negotiations with U.S. allies, persuaded the West Germans to double their orders of American-made military equipment.

Gilpatric has played a major role in shaping such key military decisions of the Kennedy Administration as the Berlin buildup and the new emphasis on conventional and guerrilla warfare. In fact, Gilpatric, not McNamara, is the Pentagon's man on a little-known but influential group set up by the National Security Council to plan Government-wide programs to counter Khrushchev's threatened national "wars of liberation." Dry Toast. Away from the Pentagon, Gilpatric can more than hold his own in the in-group badinage of the New Frontier. At a recent party on his Maryland farm, Gilpatric welcomed Bobby and Ethel Kennedy with a toast, then declared: "We have a swimming pool here--only immersion in ours is not mandatory." With McNamara away last week, the Pentagon did not vibrate quite so obviously. but the pace of work did not change. Everyone knew that Gilpatric was doing more than minding the store: he was running the place as McNamara would. Said he: "After working so closely with a man. you begin to sense how the other person thinks."

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