(3 of 3)
Manhattan Visitor Harry S. Truman, 76, took time out to scorch some of this week's visitors to Manhattan with his patented hellfire. "I don't think any more of Nasser than I do of Khrushchev," he said, "and they can both go to the bottom of the Atlantic as far as I'm concerned." Truman added, his nose still to the brimstone, that "as soon as Castro started all that anti-U.S. propaganda, we should have given him a shave and a bath and a warning to behave himself."
Just as he was about to start his eighth season as advisory coach at Stockton (Calif.) College, Amos Alonzo Stagg changed his mind, sounded the final gun to a football era. "For the past 70 years," read his letter of resignation, "I have been coach; at 98 years of age, it seems a good time to stop."
In a London Daily Telegraph installment of his forthcoming memoirs, Lord Ismay, 73, World War II Chief of Staff to Defense Minister (and Prime Minister) Winston Churchill, recalled an agonizing mid-August afternoon in 1940. It was shortly before the height of the Blitz. Churchill and "Pug" Ismay, visiting Royal Air Force fighter-command headquarters, received word that every airworthy British craft was already in action aloft, and that still another wave of Luftwaffe attackers was roaring across the Channel. Yet by dusk, the R.A.F. had miraculously turned aside the Nazi onslaught, and the Prime Minister and his aide started to drive back to Chequers. "Don't speak to me," murmured Churchill. "I have never been so moved." Then after a long five minutes, the Prime Minister leaned forward and broke the silence: "Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few." Ismay wrote: "The words burned into my brain, and I repeated them to my wife when I got home." Several days later, after Churchill had repeated the sentence in a memorable address to the House of Commons, Ismay realized that "Churchill too had evidently photographed them in his mind."