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Baruch believes in fixing a rigid ceiling over all prices as of a certain day. Then prices of all items of which there is no shortage are free to operate below the roof. Henderson is not convinced that this is a wise policy for today; he knows the big 1941 Buts to it, and believes enough of the free-price theory to favor the rise of some prices in order to insure greater production in some lines. Result today: stiff controls of the prices of most shortage items (critical, strategic and vital materials); but only a weather eye on the prices of many commodities. In effect, half a roof has been built over prices.
History of a Sacroiliac. Henderson made his New Deal reputation in 1937 with February memos that predicted the September economic collapse. As the boom went bust, so did Henderson; his health faded, from a diet of violent work, violent play and no sleep. He went to Johns Hopkins Hospital for advice but he also went to the office early many mornings, worked all day and part of the night. He went on like that through 1938 and 1939; his sacroiliac began to weaken from carrying his magnificent paunch around. In May 1940, the doctors ordered him to take a long rest; but the President appointed him price commissioner of the National Defense Advisory Commission, and the vacation was off.
In January 1941 he was physically worn out. He was also utterly disgusted with the defense progress, weary of battering his big triangular head against the stone wall of men running the program without knowledge of the real situation or the historical causes. The President sent him away for a month, told him they would re-examine the situation on his return. Henderson went south. Columnists said he was washed up, through; and they were almost right.
At that point no one was in charge of the U.S. World War II economy. The situation steadily worsened; some prices began to get out of hand, dragging others with them. Returning from Europe, the President's confidant, Harry Hopkins, found Henderson waiting to greet him at the San Juan, P.R. Clipper stop. They talked. Hopkins flew to Washington. Soon Henderson was called back, few weeks later given the job of U.S. Price Boss. He felt fine; tanned, refreshed, his enormous girth down many inches. Again he began charging about like a stung rhinoceros, roaring to all who would listen: "By God, we should have learned a few things from the last war!"
He went to see Baruch constantly; by last week they had resorted to the park bench to guarantee against interruptions. Henderson read aloud from stacks of memos and together they examined the economic problems of World War II.
Two Men on a Bench. The older man, who counts both prime ministers and horse trainers among his friends, had examined U.S. industry for a half-century with the detachment of a biologist. The younger, a three-letter Swarthmore athlete, explosive, bluff, gruff, rough-&-tumble, had plowed through economics like a line-plunging fullback. Both are public-spirited patriots—and both are dead certain they can do most things better than anyone else, and are ready to prove it at a hat's drop. Both are beagles for the facts, indifferent to theories not based on rigid proof. Both have always worked in the same way: get facts, facts, facts; draw straight-line conclusions; then back your judgment till hell freezes.